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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


A  MOTLEY 

VILLA  RUBEIN 

THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 

THE   MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 


PLAYS 

A  COMMENTARY 


A   MOTLEY 


A  MOTLEY 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


nr 

{  UNIVERSITY 

V  Of 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  June,  1910 

111 


TO 
E.  V.  LUCAS 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

THE  stories,  studies,  and  impressions,  which  make 
up  this  volume,  bear  dates  ranging  from  1899  to 
1910.  "A  Portrait"  and  "The  Japanese  Quince" 
appear  for  the  first  time.  For  permission  to  reprint 
others  I  thank  the  Editors  of  the  English  Review, 
Englishwoman,  Nation,  Speaker,  Outlook,  Sketch, 
T.P.'s  Weekly,  and  Westminster  Gazette. 

LONDON:  April  15,  1910. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  PORTRAIT 1 

-A  FISHER  OF  MEN 31 

THE  PRISONER 51 

COURAGE      .      . 63 

•  THE  MEETING 75 

THE  PACK .      .  83 

COMPENSATION 93 

JOY  OF  LIFE «      »     .      .  105 

BEL  COLORE 109 

A  PILGRIMAGE Ill 

.THE  KINGS 115 

APOTHEOSIS 117 

THE  WORKERS 123 

A  MILLER  OF  DEE .  131 

.  A  PARTING *      .      .  143 

ri 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  BEAST  OF  BURDEN 151- 

THE   LIME  TREE 155 

THE  NEIGHBOURS 163 

THE  RUNAGATES 175 

A  REVERSION  TO  TYPE 183 

A  WOMAN 193 

THE  "CODGER" 203  - 

FOR  EVER 211 

THE  CONSUMMATION 223 

THE  CHOICE 235 

THE  JAPANESE  QUINCE 247 

•ONCE  MORE 255 

DELIGHT  271 


A    MOTLEY 


A  PORTRAIT 

IT  is  at  the  age  of  eighty  that  I  picture 
him,  without  the  vestige  of  a  stoop,  rather 
above  middle  height,  of  very  well-proportioned 
figure,  whose  flatness  of  back  and  easy  move- 
ments were  the  admiration  of  all  who  saw 
them.  His  iron-grey  eyes  had  lost  none  of 
their  colour,  they  were  set-in  deep,  so  that 
their  upper  lids  were  invisible,  and  had  a 
peculiar  questioning  directness,  apt  to  change 
suddenly  into  twinkles.  His  head  was  of  fine 
shape — one  did  not  suspect  that  it  required  a 
specially  made  hat,  being  a  size  larger  than 
almost  any  other  head;  it  was  framed  in  very 
silky  silvery  hair,  brushed  in  an  arch  across  his 
forehead,  and  falling  in  becoming  curves  over 
the  tips  of  his  ears;  and  he  wore  always  a  full 
white  beard  and  moustaches,  which  concealed 
a  jaw  and  chin  of  great  determination  cleft  by 
a  dimple.  His  nose  had  been  broken  in  his 
early  boyhood;  it  was  the  nose  of  a  thinker, 

1 


A  MOTLEY 

broad  and  of  noticeable  shape.  The  colour  of 
his  cheeks  was  a  fine  dry  brown;  his  brow  very 
capacious,  both  wide  and  high,  and  endowed 
with  a  singular  serenity.  But  it  was  the  bal- 
ance and  poise  of  his  head  which  commanded 
so  much  attention.  In  a  theatre,  church, 
concert-hall,  there  was  never  any  head  so  fine 
as  his,  for  the  silvery  hair  and  beard  lent  to 
its  massiveness  a  curious  grace  and  delicacy. 

The  owner  of  that  head  could  not  but  be 
endowed  with  force,  sagacity,  humour,  and 
the  sense  of  justice.  It  expressed,  indeed,  his 
essential  quality — equanimity;  for  there  were 
two  men  in  him — he  of  the  chin  and  jaw,  a 
man  of  action  and  tenacity,  and  he  of  the  nose 
and  brow,  the  man  of  speculation  and  imper- 
sonality; yet  these  two  were  so  curiously  bal- 
anced and  blended  that  there  was  no  harsh 
ungraceful  conflict.  And  what  made  this 
equanimity  so  memorable  was  the  fact  that 
both  his  power  of  action  and  his  power  of  spec- 
ulation were  of  high  quality.  He  was  not  a 
commonplace  person  content  with  a  little  of 
both.  He  wanted  and  had  wanted  through- 
out life,  if  one  may  judge  by  records,  a  good 

2 


A  PORTRAIT 

deal  of  both,  ever  demanding  with  one  half  of 
him  strong  and  continuous  action,  and  with 
the  other  half,  high  and  clean  thought  and 
behaviour.  The  desire  for  the  best  both  in 
material  and  spiritual  things  remained  with 
him  through  life.  He  felt  things  deeply; 
and  but  for  his  strange  balance,  and  a  yearn- 
ing for  inward  peace  which  never  seems  to 
have  deserted  him,  his  ship  might  well  have 
gone  down  in  tragedy. 

To  those  who  had  watched  that  journey,  his 
voyage  through  life  seemed  favourable,  always 
on  the  top  of  the  weather.  He  had  worked 
hard,  and  he  had  played  hard,  but  never  too 
hard.  And  though  one  might  often  see  him 
irritated,  I  think  no  one  ever  saw  him  bored. 
He  perceived  a  joke  quicker  than  most  of  us; 
he  was  never  eccentric,  yet  fundamentally  in- 
dependent of  other  people's  opinions,  and  per- 
haps a  little  unconscious  that  there  were  bet- 
ter men  than  he.  Not  that  he  was  conceited, 
for  of  this  quality,  so  closely  allied  to  stupid- 
ity and  humbug,  he  had  about  as  much  as 
the  babe  unborn.  He  was,  indeed,  a  natural 
foe  to  anaemia  in  any  of  its  forms,  just  as  he 

3 


A  MOTLEY 

was  instinctively  hostile  to  gross  bull-beef  men 
and  women.  The  words,  "a  bullying  chap," 
were  used  by  him  as  crushing  dispraise.  I 
can  recall  him  now  in  his  chair  after  dinner, 
listening  to  one,  who,  puffing  his  cigarette,  is 
letting  himself  go  on  a  stream  of  robustious, 
rather  swaggering  complacencies;  with  what 
a  comprehending  straight  look  he  regards  the 
speaker,  not  scornful,  not  sarcastic,  but  sim- 
ply, as  it  were,  saying:  "No,  my  young  buck, 
for  all  your  fine  full-blooded  talk,  and  all  ydur 
red  face,  you  are  what  I  see  you  tp  be,  and 
you  will  do  what  I  tell  you  to  do!"  Such 
men  had  no  chance  with  him  when  it  came  to 
the  tug  of  war;  he  laid  his  will  on  them  as  if 
they  had  been  children. 

He  was  that  rather  rare  thing,  a  pure-blooded 
Englishman;  having  no  strain  of  Scotch, 
Welsh,  Irish,  or  foreign  blood  in  his  pedigree 
for  four  hundred  years  at  least.  He  sprang 
from  a  long  line  of  farmers  intermarrying  with 
their  kind  in  the  most  southern  corner  of  Dev- 
onshire, and  it  is  probable  that  Norse  and 
British  blood  were  combined  in  him  in  a  high 
state  of  equality.  Even  in  the  actual  situation 

4 


A  PORTRAIT 

of  his  place  of  origin,  the  principle  of  balance 
had  been  maintained,  for  the  old  farmhouse 
from  which  his  grandfather  had  emerged  had 
been  perched  close  to  the  cliff.  Thus,  to  the 
making  of  him  had  gone  land  and  sea,  the 
Norseman  and  the  Celt. 

Articled  to  the  Law  at  the  age  of  sixteen  by 
his  father,  a  Plymouth  merchant,  whose  small 
ancient  ships  traded  to  the  Mediterranean  in 
fruits,  leather,  and  wines,  he  had  come  to  Lon- 
don, and  at  the  earliest  possible  date  (as  was 
the  habit  with  men  in  those  times)  had  been 
entered  on  the  rolls  as  a  solicitor.  Often  has 
he  told  me  of  the  dinner  he  gaye  in  honour  of 
that  event.  "I  was  a  thread-paper,  then,"  he 
would  say  (indeed,  he  never  became  fat),— 
"We  began  with  a  barrel  of  oysters. "  About 
that  and  other  festivities  of  his  youth,  there 
was  all  the  rich  and  rollicking  flavour  of  the 
days  of  Pickwick.  He  was  practically  depen- 
dent on  his  own  exertions  from  the  time  he 
began  to  practise  his  profession,  and  it  was 
characteristic  of  him  that  he  never  seems  to 
have  been  hard  pressed  for  money.  The  in- 
herent sanity  and  moderation  of  his  instincts 

5 


A  MOTLEY 

preserved  him,  one  imagines,  from  the  financial 
ups  and  downs  of  most  young  men,  for  there 
was  no  niggardliness  in  him,  and  a  certain 
breadth  of  conception  characterised  his  money 
affairs  throughout  life.  It  was  rather  by  the 
laws  of  gravity,  therefore,  whereby  money  ju- 
diciously employed  attracts  money,  and  the 
fact  that  he  lived  in  that  moneymaker's  Golden 
Age,  the  nineteenth  century,  that  he  had  long 
been  (at  the  age  of  eighty)  a  wealthy  man. 
Money  was  to  him  the  symbol  of  a  well-spent, 
well-ordered  life,  provocative  of  warmth  in  his 
heart  because  he  loved  his  children,  and  was 
careful  of  them  to  a  fault.  He  did  not  marry 
till  he  was  forty-five,  but  his  feeling  for  the 
future  of  his  family  manifested  itself  with  the 
birth  of  his  first  child.  Selecting  a  fair  and 
high  locality,  not  too  far  away  from  London,  he 
set  himself  at  once  to  make  a  country  place, 
where  the  little  things  should  have  fresh  air, 
new  milk,  and  all  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  home- 
grown round  them.  Quite  wonderful  was  the 
forethought  he  lavished  on  that  house  and  little 
estate  stretching  down  the  side  of  a  hill,  with 
its  walled  gardens,  pasture,  corn-land  and  cop- 

6 


A  PORTRAIT 

pice.  All  was  solid,  and  of  the  best,  from  the 
low  four-square  red  brick  house  with  its  con- 
crete terrace  and  French  windows,  to  the 
cow-houses  down  by  the  coppice.  From  the 
oak  trees,  hundreds  of  years  old,  on  the  lawns, 
to  the  peach  trees  just  planted  along  the  south 
sunny  walls.  But  here  too,  there  was  no  dis- 
play for  the  sake  of  it,  and  no  extravagance. 
Everything  was  at  hand,  from  home-baked 
bread,  to  mushrooms  wild  and  tame;  from 
the  stables  with  their  squat  clock-tower,  to 
pigsties;  from  roses  that  won  all  the  local 
prizes,  to  bluebells;  but  nothing  redundant 
or  pretentious. 

The  place  was  an  endless  pleasure  to  him, 
who  to  the  last  preserved  his  power  of  taking 
interest,  not  only  in  great,  but  in  little  things. 
Each  small  triumph  over  difficulty — the  secur- 
ing of  hot  water  in  such  a  quarter,  the  better 
lighting  of  another,  the  rescue  of  the  nectarines 
from  wasps,  the  quality  of  his  Alderney  cows, 
the  encouragement  of  rooks — afforded  him 
as  much  simple  and  sincere  satisfaction  as 
every  little  victory  he  achieved  in  his  pro- 
fession, or  in  the  life  of  the  Companies  which 

7 


A  MOTLEY 

he  directed.  But  with  all  his  shrewd  practical 
sense,  and  almost  naive  pleasure  in  material 
advantage,  he  combined  a  very  real  spiritual 
life  of  his  own.  Nor  was  there  anything  as- 
cetic in  that  inner  life.  It  was  mellow  as  the 
music  of  Mozart,  his  most  beloved  composer; 
Art  and  Nature,  both  had  their  part  in  it. 
He  was,  for  instance,  very  fond  of  opera,  but 
only  when  it  could  be  called  '  grand ';  and  it 
grieved  him  that  opera  was  no  longer  what  it 
had  been,  yet  was  it  secretly  a  grave  satis- 
faction that  he  had  known  those  classical 
glories  denied  to  the  present  generation.  He 
loved  indeed  almost  all  classical  music,  but 
(besiddBt  Mozart)  especially  Beethoven,  Gluck, 
and  Meyy#eer,  whom  he  insisted  (no  less  than 
Herbert  Spencer)  on  considering  a  great  com- 
poser. Wagner  he  tried  very  hard  to  appreciate 
and,  after  visiting  Bayreuth,  even  persuaded 
himself  that  he  had  succeeded,  though  he 
never  ceased  to  point  out  the  great  difference 
that  existed  between  this  person  and  Mozart. 
He  loved  the  Old  Masters  of  painting,  having 
for  favourites  amongst  the  Italians:  Rafael, 
Correggio,  Titian,  Tintoretto;  and  amongst 

8 


A  PORTRAIT 

Englishmen  Reynolds  and  Romney.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  regarded  Hogarth  and  Rubens 
as  coarse,  but  Vandyke  he  very  much  admired, 
because  of  his  beautiful  painting  of  hands,  the 
hall-mark,  he  would  maintain,  of  an  artist's 
quality.  I  cannot  remember  his  feeling  about 
Rembrandt,  but  Turner  he  certainly  distrusted 
as  extravagant.  Botticelli  and  the  earlier  mas- 
ters he  had  not  as  yet  quite  learned  to  relish; 
and  Impressionism,  including  Whistler,  never 
really  made  conquest  of  his  taste,  though  he 
always  resolutely  kept  his  mind  open  to  what 
was  modern — feeling  himself  young  at  heart. 

Once  on  a  spring  day,  getting  over  a  stile,  I 
remember  him  saying:  ^ 

" Eighty!  I  can't  believe  it.  SeeShs  very 
queer.  I  don't  feel  it.  Eighty!"  And,  point- 
ing to  a  blackbird  that  was  singing,  he  added: 
"That  takes  the  years  off  you!"  His  love 
of  Nature  was  very  intimate,  simple,  and  un- 
conscious. I  can  see  him  standing  by  the 
pond  of  a  summer  evening  watching  the  great 
flocks  of  starlings  that  visited  those  fields; 
or,  with  his  head  a  little  to  one  side,  listening 
rapturously  to  a  skylark.  He  would  contem- 

9 


A  MOTLEY 

plate,  too,  with  a  sort  of  serene  passion,  sunset 
effects,  and  every  kind  of  view. 

But  his  greatest  joy  in  life  had  been  his  long 
summer  holidays,  in  Italy  or  among  the  Alps, 
and  his  memory  was  a  perfect  storehouse  of 
peaks,  passes,  and  arrivals  at  Italian  inns.  He 
had  been  a  great  walker,  and,  as  an  old  man, 
was  still  very  active.  I  can  remember  him  on 
horseback  at  the  age  of  sixty,  though  he  had 
never  been  a  sportsman — not  being  in  the  way 
of  hunting,  having  insufficient  patience  for 
fishing,  and  preferring  to  spend  such  time  as 
he  might  have  had  for  shooting,  in  communing 
with  his  beloved  mountains.  His  love  for  all 
kinds  of  beauty,  indeed,  was  strangely  potent; 
and  perhaps  the  more  natural  and  deep  for  its 
innocence  of  all  tradition  and  formal  culture. 
He  got  it,  I  think,  from  his  mother,  of  whom 
he  always  spoke  with  reverence  as  "the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  Three  Towns.7'  Yes, 
his  love  of  beauty  was  a  sensuous,  warm  glow 
pervading  the  whole  of  him,  secretly  separat- 
ing him  from  the  majority  of  his  associates. 
A  pretty  face,  a  beautiful  figure,  a  mellow 
tune,  the  sight  of  dancing,  a  blackbird's  song, 

10 


A  PORTRAIT 

the  moon  behind  a  poplar  tree,  starry  nights, 
sweet  scents,  and  the  language  of  Shakespeare 
— all  these  moved  him  deeply,  the  more  per- 
haps because  he  had  never  learned  to  express 
his  feelings.  His  attempts  at  literature  in- 
deed were  strangely  naive  and  stilted;  his 
verse,  in  the  comic  vein,  rather  good;  but  all, 
as  it  were,  like  his  period,  ashamed  to  express 
any  intimate  feeling  except  in  classical  lan- 
guage. Yet  his  literary  tastes  were  catholic; 
Milton  was  his  favourite  poet,  Byron  he  also 
admired;  Browning  he  did  not  care  for;  his 
favourite  novelist  was  George  Eliot,  and,  curi- 
ously enough — in  later  life — Turgenev.  I  well 
remember  when  the  translated  volumes  of  that 
author  were  coming  out,  how  he  would  ask  for 
another  of  those  yellow  books.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  liked  them,  with  all  those  "  crack- 
jaw"  Russian  names;  but  assuredly  it  was  be- 
cause they  were  written  by  one  who  worshipped 
beauty. 

The  works  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  he 
read  with  appreciation,  on  the  whole,  finding 
the  first  perhaps  a  little  too  grotesque,  and  the 
second  a  little  too  satiric.  Scott,  Trollope, 

11 


A  MOTLEY 

Marryat,  Blackmore,  Hardy,  and  Mark  Twain 
also  pleased  him;  but  Meredith  he  thought 
too  " misty." 

A  great  theatre-goer  all  his  life,  he  was  very 
lukewarm  towards  modern  actors,  comparing 
them  adversely  with  those  constellations  of 
the  past,  Edmund  and  Charles  Kean,  Charlie 
Mathews,  Farren,  Power,  "  little  Robson,"  and 
Helen  Faucit.  He  was,  however,  a  great  lover 
of  Kate  Vaughan's  dancing;  an*  illustration 
of  the  equanimity  of  one  who  had  formed  his 
taste  on  Taglioni. 

Irving  he  would  only  accept  in  Louis  XL, 
The  Bells,  and,  I  think,  Charles  7.,  and  for  his 
mannerisms  he  had  a  great  aversion.  There 
was  something  of  the  old  grand  manner  about 
his  theatre  habits.  He  attended  with  the 
very  best  and  thinnest  lavender  kid  gloves  on 
his  hands,  which  he  would  hold  up  rather  high 
and  clap  together  at  the  end  of  an  act  which 
pleased  him;  even,  on  memorable  occasions, 
adding  the  word  "  Bravo."  He  never  went 
out  before  the  end  of  a  play,  however  vehe- 
mently he  might  call  it  "poor  stuff,"  which, 
to  be  quite  honest,  he  did  about  nine  times  out 

12 


A  PORTRAIT 

of  ten.  And  he  was  ever  ready  to  try  again, 
having  a  sort  of  touching  confidence  in  an  art 
which  had  betrayed  him  so  often.  His  opera 
hats  were  notable,  usually  of  such  age  as  to 
have  lost  shape,  and  surely  the  largest  in  Lon- 
don. Indeed,  his  dress  was  less  varied  than 
that  of  any  man  I  have  ever  seen ;  but  always 
neat  and  well-cut,  for  he  went  habitually  to 
the  best  shops,  and  without  eccentricity  of  any 
kind.  He  carried  a  repeating  gold  watch  and 
thin  round  gold  chain  which  passed,  smooth 
and  sinuous  as  a  little  snake,  through  a  small 
black  seal  with  a  bird  on  it;  and  he  never 
abandoned  very  well  made  side-spring  boots 
with  cork  soles,  greatly  resenting  the  way 
other  boots  dirtied  his  hands,  which  were  thin 
and  brown  with  long  polished  nails,  and  blue 
veins  outstanding.  For  reading  only,  he  wore 
tortoise-shell  eyeglasses,  which  he  would  perch 
low  down  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  so  that  he 
could  look  over  them,  for  his  eyes  were  very 
long-sighted.  He  was  extremely  fastidious  in 
his  linen,  and  all  personal  matters,  yet  im- 
patient of  being  mollycoddled,  or  in  any  way 
over- valeted.  Even  on  the  finest  days,  he 

13 


A  MOTLEY 

carried  an  umbrella,  the  ferrule  of  which,  from 
his  habit  of  stumping  it  on  the  pavement,  had 
a  worn  and  harassed  look,  and  was  rarely  more 
than  half  present. 

Having  been  a  Conservative  Liberal  in  poli- 
tics till  well  past  sixty,  it  was  not  until  Dis- 
raeli's time  that  he  became  a  Liberal  Conser- 
vative. This  was  curious,  for  he  always  spoke 
doubtfully  of  "Dizzy,"  and  even  breathed  the 
word  "humbug"  in  connection  with  him. 
Probably  he  was  offended  by  what  he  termed 
"the  extravagance"  in  Dizzy's  rival.  For 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire  and  Lord  Salisbury 
he  had  respect  without  enthusiasm;  and  con- 
ceived for  John  Bright  a  great  admiration  as 
soon  as  he  was  dead.  But  on  the  whole  the 
politician  who  had  most  attracted  him  had 
been  Palmerston,  because — if  memory  serves — 
he  had  in  such  admirable  degree  the  faculty  of 
"astonishing  their  weak  nerves."  For,  though 
never  a  Jingo,  and  in  later  days  both  cautious 
and  sane  in  his  Imperialism,  he  had  all  a 
Briton's  essential  deep-rooted  distrust  of  the 
foreigner.  He  felt  that  they  were  not  quite 
safe,  not  quite  sound,  and  must  from  time  to 

14 


A  PORTRAIT 

time  be  made  to  feel  this.  Born  two  years 
after  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  he  had  inherited  a 
certain  high  pride  of  island  birth.  And  yet  in 
one  case,  where  he  was  for  years  in  close  con- 
tact with  a  foreigner  he  conceived  for  him  so 
grave  a  respect,  that  it  was  quite  amusing  to 
watch  the  discomfiture  of  his  traditional  dis- 
trust. It  was  often  a  matter  of  wonder  amongst 
those  who  knew  him  that  a  man  of  his  ability 
and  judgment  had  never  even  sought  to  make 
his  mark  in  public  affairs.  Of  the  several  rea- 
sons for  this,  the  chief  was,  undoubtedly,  the 
extraordinary  balance  of  his  temperament.  To 
attain  pre-eminence  in  any  definite  department 
of  life  would  have  warped  and  stunted  too 
many  of  his  instincts,  removed  too  many  of  his 
interests;  and  so  he  never  specialised  in  any- 
thing. He  was  quite  unambitious,  always  tak- 
ing the  lead  in  whatever  field  he  happened  to 
be,  by  virtue  of  his  great  capacity  and  will- 
power, but  never  pushing  himself,  and  appar- 
ently without  any  life-aim,  but  that  of  leading 
a  sane,  moderate,  and  harmonious  existence. 

And  it  is  for  this  that  he  remains  written  on 
the  national  page,  as  the  type  of  a  lost  and 

15 


A  MOTLEY 

golden  time,  when  life  to  each  man  seemed 
worth  living  for  its  own  sake,  without  thought 
of  its  meaning  as  a  whole,  or  much  speculation 
as  to  its  end.  There  was  something  classical, 
measured,  and  mellow  in  his  march  adown  the 
years,  as  if  he  had  been  god-mothered  by  Har- 
mony. And  yet,  though  he  said  his  prayers  and 
went  to  church,  he  could  not  fairly  have  been 
called  a  religious  man;  for  at  the  time  when 
he  formed  his  religious  habits,  " religion"  had 
as  yet  received  no  shocks,  and  reigned  trium- 
phant over  an  unconscious  nation  whose  spirit 
was  sleeping;  and  when  " religion,"  disturbed 
to  its  foundations,  began  to  die,  and  people  all 
round  him  were  just  becoming  religious  enough 
to  renounce  the  beliefs  they  no  longer  held, 
he  was  too  old  to  change,  and  continued  to 
employ  the  mechanism  of  a  creed  which  had 
never  really  been  vital  to  him.  He  was  in 
essence  pagan:  All  was  right  with  his  world! 
His  love  was  absorbed  by  Nature,  and  his 
wonder  by  the  Great  Starry  Scheme  he  felt 
all  around.  This  was  God  to  him;  for  it  was 
ever  in  the  presence  of  the  stars  that  he  was 
most  moved  to  a  sense  of  divine  order.  Look- 

16 


A  PORTRAIT 

ing  up  at  those  tremulous  cold  companions  he 
seemed  more  reverent,  and  awed,  than  ever  he 
was  in  the  face  of  creeds  or  his  fellow  man. 
Whether  stirred  by  the  sheer  beauty  of  Night, 
or  by  its  dark  immensity  swarming  with  those 
glittering  worlds,  he  would  stand  silent,  and 
then,  perhaps,  say  wistfully:  "What  little 
bits  of  things  we  are!  Poor  little  wretches!" 
Yes,  it  was  then  that  he  really  worshipped, 
adoring  the  great  wonders  of  Eternity.  No 
one  ever  heard  him  talk  with  conviction  of  a 
future  life.  He  was  far  too  self-reliant  to  ac- 
cept what  he  was  told,  save  by  his  own  inner 
voice;  and  that  did  not  speak  to  him  with 
certainty.  In  fact,  as  he  grew  old,  to  be  un- 
certain of  all  such  high  things  was  part  of  his 
real  religion;  it  seemed  to  him,  I  think,  im- 
pertinent to  pretend  to  intimate  knowledge  of 
what  was  so  much  bigger  than  himself.  But 
neither  his  conventional  creed,  nor  that  awed 
uncertainty  which  was  his  real  religion  were 
ever  out  of  hand;  they  jogged  smoothly  on  in 
double  harness,  driven  and  guided  by  a  su- 
premer  power — his  reverence  for  Life.  He  ab- 
horred fanaticism.  In  this  he  truly  mirrored 

17 


A  MOTLEY 

the  spirit  of  that  great  peacefully  expanding 
river,  the  Victorian  Era,  which  began  when  he 
came  of  age.  And  yet,  in  speaking  before  him 
of  deep  or  abstract  things,  it  was  not  safe  to 
reckon  without  his  criticism,  which  would 
sometimes  make  powerfully  shrewd  deductions 
out  of  the  sheer  logical  insight  of  a  nature 
neither  fundamentally  concerned  with  other 
worlds,  nor  brought  up  to  the  ways  of  dis- 
cussion. He  was  pre-eminently  the  son  of  a 
time  between  two  ages — a  past  age  of  old, 
unquestioning  faith  in  Authority;  a  future 
age  of  new  faith,  already  born  but  not  yet 
grown.  Still  sheltering  in  the  shade  of  the 
old  tree  which  was  severed  at  the  roots  and 
toppling,  he  never,  I  think,  clearly  saw — 
though  he  may  have  had  glimpses — that  men, 
like  children  whose  mother  has  departed  from 
their  home,  were  slowly  being  forced  to  trust 
in,  and  be  good  to,  themselves  and  to  one 
another,  and  so  to  form  out  of  their  necessity, 
desperately,  unconsciously,  their  new  great 
belief  in  Humanity.  Yes,  he  was  the  son  of 
a  time  between  two  ages — the  product  of  an  era 
without  real  faith — an  individualist  to  the  core. 

18 


A  PORTRAIT 

His  attitude  towards  the  poor,  for  instance, 
was  essentially  that  of  man  to  man.  Save 
that  he  could  not  tolerate  impostors,  (one  of 
his  favourite  words),  and  saw  through  them 
with  almost  startling  rapidity,  he  was  com- 
passionate to  any  who  had  fallen  on  evil  for- 
tune, and  especially  to  those  who  had  been  in 
any  way  connected  with  him.  But  in  these 
almonary  transactions  he  was  always  particu- 
larly secretive,  as  if  rather  doubting  their 
sagacity,  and  the  wisdom  of  allowing  them  to 
become  known — himself  making  up  and  de- 
spatching the  parcels  of  old  clothes,  and  rather 
surreptitiously  producing  such  coins  and  writ- 
ing such  cheques  as  were  necessary.  But  "the 
poor,"  in  bulk,  were  always  to  him  the  concern 
of  the  Poor  Law  pure  and  simple,  and  in  no 
sense  of  the  individual  citizen.  It  was  the  same 
with  malefactors,  he  might  pity  as  well  as  con- 
demn them,  but  the  idea  that  the  society  to 
which  he  and  they  belonged  was  in  any  way 
responsible  for  them,  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  him.  His  sense  of  justice,  like  that 
of  his  period,  was  fundamentally  based  on 
the  notion  that  every  man  had  started  with 

19 


A  MOTLEY 

equal,  or  at  all  events,  with  quite  sufficient  op- 
portunities, and  must  be  judged  as  if  he  had. 
But,  indeed,  it  was  not  the  custom  in  his  day 
to  concern  oneself  with  problems  outside  one's 
own  class.  Within  that  class,  and  in  all  mat- 
ters domestic,  no  man  was  ever  born  with  a 
nicer  sense  of  justice.  It  was  never  overridden 
by  his  affections;  very  seldom,  and  that  with 
a  certain  charming  naivete,  by  his  interests. 
This  sense  of  justice,  however,  in  no  way  pre- 
vented him  from  being  loved;  for,  in  spite  of  a 
temper  apt  to  take  fire,  flare  up,  and  quickly 
die  down  again,  he  was  one  of  the  most  love- 
able  of  men.  There  was  not  an  ounce  of 
dourness  or  asperity  in  his  composition.  His 
laughter  was  of  a  most  infectious  kind,  singu- 
larly spontaneous  and  delightful,  resembling 
the  laughter  of  a  child.  The  change  which  a 
joke  wrought  in  the  aspect  of  his  large,  dig- 
nified, and  rather  noble  face,  was  disconcert- 
ing. It  became  wrinkled,  or,  as  it  were,  crum- 
pled; and  such  a  twinkling  overcame  his  eyes 
as  was  frequently  only  to  be  extinguished  by 
moisture.  "That's  rich!"  was  his  favourite 
expression  to  describe  what  had  tickled  him; 

20 


A  PORTRAIT 

for  he  had  preserved  the  use  of  Devonshire 
expressions,  bringing  them  forth,  from  an  in- 
timate pet  drawer  of  memory,  and  lingering 
over  them  with  real  gusto.  He  still  loved,  too, 
such  Devonshire  dishes  of  his  boyhood,  as 
" junket"  and  "toad  in  the  hole";  and  one  of 
his  favourite  memories  was  that  of  the  meals 
snatched  at  the  old  coaching  Inn  at  Exeter, 
while  they  changed  the  horses  of  the  Plymouth 
to  the  London  coach.  Twenty-four  hours  at 
ten  miles  an  hour,  without  even  a  break! 
Glorious  drive!  Glorious  the  joints  of  beef, 
the  cherry  brandy!  Glorious  the  old  stage 
coachman,  a  "monstrous  fat  chap"  who  at 
that  time  ruled  the  road! 

In  the  City,  where  his  office  was  situate, 
he  was  wont,  though  at  all  times  a  very  moder- 
ate eater,  to  frequent  substantial,  old-fashioned 
hostelries  such  as  Roche's,  Pirn's,  or  Birch's, 
in  preference  to  newer  and  more  pretentious 
places  of  refreshment.  He  had  a  remarkable 
palate  too,  and  though  he  drank  very  little, 
was,  in  his  prime,  considered  as  fine  a  judge 
of  wine  as  any  in  London.  Of  tea  he  was  par- 
ticularly fond,  and  always  consumed  the  very 

21 


A  MOTLEY 

best  Indian,  made  with  extreme  care,  main- 
taining that  the  Chinese  variety  was  only  fit 
for  persons  of  no  taste. 

He  had  little  liking  for  his  profession,  believ- 
ing it  to  be  beneath  him,  and  that  Heaven 
had  intended  him  for  an  advocate;  in  which 
he  was  probably  right,  for  his  masterful  acu- 
men could  not  have  failed  to  assure  him  a 
foremost  position  at  the  Bar.  And  in  him,  I 
think,  it  is  certain  that  a  great  Judge  was  lost 
to  the  State.  Despite  this  contempt  for  what 
he  called  the  " pettifogging"  character  of  his 
occupation,  he  always  inspired  profound  re- 
spect in  his  clients;  and  among  the  sharehold- 
ers of  his  Companies,  of  which  he  directed 
several,  his  integrity  and  judgment  stood  so 
high  that  he  was  enabled  to  pursue  successfully 
a  line  of  policy  often  too  comprehensive,  and 
far-seeing  for  the  temper  of  the  times.  The 
reposeful  dignity,  and  courage,  of  his  head  and 
figure  when  facing  an  awkward  General  Meet- 
ing could  hardly  have  been  exceeded.  He  sat, 
as  it  were,  remote  from  its  gusty  temper, 
quietly  determining  its  course. 

Truly  memorable  were  his  conflicts  with  the 
22 


A  PORTRAIT 

only  other  man  of  his  calibre  on  those  Boards, 
and  I  cannot  remember  that  he  was  ever  beaten. 
He  was  at  once  the  quicker  tempered  and 
more  cautious.  And  if  he  had  not  the  other's 
stoicism  and  iron  nerve,  he  saw  further  into  the 
matter  in  hand,  was  more  unremitting  in  his 
effort,  equally  tenacious  of  purpose,  and  more 
magnetic.  In  fact,  he  had  a  way  with  him. 

But,  after  all  said,  it  was  in  his  dealings  with 
children  that  the  best  and  sweetest  side  of  his 
personality  was  manifested.  With  them  he 
became  completely  tender,  inexhaustibly  in- 
terested in  their  interests,  absurdly  patient, 
and  as  careful  as  a  mother.  No  child  ever 
resisted  him,  or  even  dreamed  of  doing  so. 
From  the  first  moment  they  loved  his  white 
hair  and  beard,  his  "feathers"  as  one  little 
thing  called  them.  They  liked  the  touch  of 
his  thin  hand,  which  was  never  wet  or  cold; 
and,  holding  to  it,  were  always  ready  to  walk 
with  him — wandering  with  complete  unanim- 
ity, not  knowing  quite  where  or  for  what 
reason.  How  often  have  I  not  watched  him 
starting  out  on  that  high  adventure  with  his 
grandson,  his  face  turned  gravely  down  tow- 

23 


A  MOTLEY 

ards  a  smaller  face  turned  not  quite  so  gravely 
up;  and  heard  their  voices  tremendously  con- 
cerned with  all  the  things  they  might  be  going 
to  do  together!  How  often  have  I  not  seen 
them  coming  back,  tired  as  cats,  but  still  con- 
cerned about  what  was  next  going  to  happen! 
And  children  were  always  willing  to  play 
cricket  with  him  because  he  bowled  to  them 
very  slowly,  pitching  up  what  he  called  "  three- 
quarter  "  balls,  and  himself  always  getting 
"out"  almost  before  he  went  in.  For,  though 
he  became  in  his  later  years  a  great  connoisseur 
of  cricket,  spending  many  days  at  Lord's  or 
the  Oval,  choosing  our  play  of  the  very  highest 
class,  and  quite  impatient  of  the  Eton  and 
Harrow  Match,  he  still  performed  in  a  some- 
what rococo  fashion,  as  of  a  man  taught  in 
the  late  twenties  of  the  last  century,  and  hav- 
ing occasion  to  revive  that  knowledge  about 
1895.  He  bent  his  back  knee,  and  played  with 
a  perfectly  crooked  bat,  to  the  end  that  when 
he  did  hit  the  ball,  which  was  not  too  often,  it 
invariably  climbed  the  air.  There  was,  too, 
about  his  batting,  a  certain  vein  of  recklessness 
or  bravado,  somewhat  out  of  keeping  with  his 
24 


A  PORTRAIT 

general  character,  so  that,  as  has  been  said,  he 
was  never  in  too  long.  And  when  he  got  out 
he  would  pitch  the  bat  down  as  if  he  were 
annoyed,  which  would  hugely  please  his  grand- 
son, showing  of  course  that  he  had  been  trying 
his  very  best,  as  indeed,  he  generally  had. 
But  his  bowling  was  extremely  impressive, 
being  effected  with  very  bent  knees,  and  a 
general  air  of  first  putting  the  ball  to  the  eye, 
as  if  he  were  playing  bowls;  in  this  way  he 
would  go  on  and  on  giving  the  boy  "an  innings," 
and  getting  much  too  hot.  In  fielding  he 
never  could  remember  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment whether  it  was  his  knees  or  his  feet  that 
he  ought  to  close;  and  this,  in  combination 
with  a  habit  of  bending  rather  cautiously, 
because  he  was  liable  to  lumbago,  detracted 
somewhat  from  his  brilliance;  but  when  the 
ball  was  once  in  his  hands,  it  was  most  exciting 
— impossible  to  tell  whether  he  would  throw 
it  at  the  running  batsman,  the  wicket,  or  the 
bowler,  according  as  the  game  appeared  to  him 
at  the  moment  to  be  double  wicket,  single 
wicket,  or  rounders.  He  had  lived  in  days 
when  games  were  not  the  be-all  and  end-all 

25 


A  MOTLEY 

of  existence,  and  had  never  acquired  a  proper 
seriousness  in  such  matters.  Those  who  passed 
from  cricket  with  him  to  cricket  in  the  cold 
wide  world  found  a  change  for  which  at  first 
they  were  unable  to  account.  But  even  more 
fascinating  to  children  than  his  way  of  play- 
ing cricket  was  his  perfect  identification  with 
whatever  might  be  the  matter  in  hand.  The 
examination  of  a  shell,  the  listening  to  the 
voice  of  the  sea  imprisoned  in  it,  the  making 
of  a  cocked  hat  out  of  the  Times  newspaper 
the  doing  up  of  little  buttons,  the  feeding  of 
pigeons  with  crumbs,  the  holding  fast  of  a 
tiny  leg  while  walking  beside  a  pony,  all  these 
things  absorbed  him  completely,  so  that  no 
visible  trace  was  left  of  the  man  whose  judg- 
ment on  affairs  was  admirable  and  profound. 
Nor,  whatever  the  provocation,  could  he  ever 
bring  himself  to  point  the  moral  of  anything 
to  a  child,  having  that  utter  toleration  of  their 
foibles  which  only  comes  from  a  natural  and 
perfectly  unconscious  love  of  being  with  them. 
His  face,  habitually  tranquil,  wore  in  their 
presence  a  mellow  look  of  almost  devil-may- 
care  serenity. 

26 


A  PORTRAIT 

Their  sayings,  too,  he  treasured,  as  though 
they  were  pearls.  First  poems,  such  as: 

I  son*  a  worm, 

It  was  half-ly  dead; 
I  took  a  great  spud 

And  speared  through  his  head 

were  to  him  of  singular  fair  promise.  Their 
diagnoses  of  character,  moreover,  especially 
after  visiting  a  circus,  filled  him  with  pure 
rapture,  and  he  would  frequently  repeat  this 
one: 

" Father,  is  Uncle  a  clever  man?" 

"H'm!  well — yes,  certainly." 

"I  never  seen  no  specimens.  He  can't  bal- 
ance a  pole  on  his  nose,  for  instance." 

To  the  declining  benison  of  their  prayers, 
from  their  " darling  father  and  mother,"  to 
"all  poor  people  who  are  in  distress,"  he  loved 
to  listen,  not  so  much  for  the  sentiments  ex- 
pressed, as  because,  in  their  little  nightgowns, 
they  looked  so  sweet,  and  were  so  round-about 
in  their  way  of  getting  to  work. 

Yes,  children  were  of  all  living  things  his 
chosen  friends,  and  they  knew  it. 

27 


A  MOTLEY 

But  in  his  long  life  he  made  singularly  few 
fast  friendships  with  grown-up  people,  and, 
as  far  as  I  know,  no  enemies.  For  there  was 
in  him,  despite  his  geniality,  a  very  strong 
vein  of  fastidiousness,  and  such  essential  deep 
love  of  domination,  that  he  found,  perhaps,  few 
men  of  his  own  age  and  standing  to  whom  he 
did  not  feel  natively  superior.  His  most  real 
and  lifelong  friendship  was  for  a  certain  very 
big  man  with  a  profound  hatred  of  humbug 
and  a  streak  of  "the  desperate  character"  in 
him.  They  held  each  other  in  the  highest 
esteem,  or,  as  they  would  probably  have  put  it, 
swore  by  one  another;  the  one  grumbling  at, 
but  reverencing,  the  other's  high  and  resolute 
equanimity;  the  other  deploring  and  admiring 
the  one's  deep  and  generous  recklessness.  The 
expressions:  "Just  like  John,  the  careful  fel- 
low!" "Just  like  Sil,  reckless  beggar!"  were 
always  on  their  lips;  for  like  all  their  genera- 
tion they  were  sparing  of  encomium;  and  great, 
indeed,  must  have  been  their  emotion  before 
they  would  show  their  feelings.  Dear  as  they 
were  to  each  other's  hearts,  they  never  talked 
together  of  spiritual  things,  they  never  spoke 

28 


A  PORTRAIT 

in  generalities,  but  gravely  smoking  their 
cigars,  discussed  their  acquaintances,  invest- 
ments, wine,  their  nephews  and  grandchildren; 
and  the  affairs  of  the  State — condemning  the 
advertising  fashion  in  which  everything  was 
now  done.  Once  in  a  way  they  would  tell  a 
story — but  they  knew  each  other's  stories  too 
well;  once  in  a  way  quote  a  line  of  Byron, 
Shakespeare,  or  Milton;  or  whistle  to  each 
other,  inharmoniously,  a  bar  or  two  from  some 
song  that  Grisi,  Mario,  or  Jenny  Lind  had  sung. 
Once  in  a  way  memories  of  the  heyday  of  their 
youth,  those  far-off  golden  hours,  stealing  over 
them,  they  would  sit  silent,  with  their  grave 
steady  eyes  following  the  little  rings  of  bluish 
smoke.  .  .  .  Yes,  for  all  their  lack  of  demon- 
stration, they  loved  each  other  well. 

I  seem  still  to  see  the  subject  of  this  por- 
trait standing  at  his  friend's  funeral  one  bleak 
November  day,  the  pale  autumn  sunlight  fall- 
ing on  the  silver  of  his  uncovered  head  a  little 
bowed,  and  on  his  grave  face,  for  once  so  sad. 
I  hear  the  tones  of  his  voice,  still  full  and  steady; 
and  from  the  soul  in  his  eyes,  looking,  as  it 
were,  through  and  through  those  forms  of  death 

29 


A  MOTLEY 

to  some  deep  conclusion  of  his  own,  I  know  how 
big  and  sane  and  sweet  he  was. 

His  breed  is  dying  now,  it  has  nearly  gone. 
But  as  I  remember  him  with  that  great  quiet 
forehead,  with  his  tenderness,  and  his  glance 
which  travelled  to  the  heart  of  what  it  rested 
on,  I  despair  of  seeing  his  like  again.  For, 
with  him  there  seems  to  me  to  have  passed 
away  a  principle,  a  golden  rule  of  life,  nay, 
more,  a  spirit — the  soul  of  Balance.  It  has 
stolen  away,  as  in  the  early  morning  the  stars 
steal  out  of  the  sky.  He  knew  its  tranquil 
secret,  and  where  he  is,  there  must  it  still  be 
hovering. 

1910. 


30 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

LONG  ago  it  is,  now,  that  I  used  to  see 
him  issue  from  the  rectory,  followed 
by  his  dogs,  an  Irish  and  a  fox  terrier.  He 
would  cross  to  the  churchyard,  and,  at  the 
gate,  stand  looking  over  the  Cornish  upland 
of  his  cure  of  souls,  toward  the  sea,  distant 
nearly  a  mile.  About  his  black  thin  figure 
there  was  one  bright  spot,  a  little  gold  cross, 
dangling  on  his  vest.  His  eyes  at  such  mo- 
ments were  like  the  eyes  of  fishermen  watching 
from  the  cliffs  for  pilchards  to  come  by;  but 
as  this  fisher  of  men  marked  the  grey  roofs 
covered  with  yellow  lichen  where  his  human 
fishes  dwelt,  red  stains  would  come  into  his 
meagre  cheeks.  His  lips  would  move,  and  he 
would  turn  abruptly  in  at  the  gate  over  which 
was  written:  "This  is  the  Gate  of  Heaven." 

A  certain  green  spot  within  that  church- 
yard was  kept  clear  of  grave-stones,  which 
thickly  covered  all  the  rest  of  the  ground. 

31 


A  MOTLEY 

He  never — I  believe — failed  to  look  at  it,  and 
think:  "I  will  keep  that  corner  free.  I  will 
not  be  buried  amongst  men  who  refuse  their 
God!" 

For  this  was  his  misfortune,  which,  like  a 
creeping  fate,  had  come  on  him  year  by  year 
throughout  his  twenty  years  of  rectorship. 
It  had  eaten  into  his  heart,  as  is  the  way  with 
troubles  which  a  man  cannot  understand.  In 
plain  words,  his  catch  of  souls  had  dwindled 
season  by  season  till,  from  three  hundred  when 
he  was  first  presented  to  the  living,  it  barely 
numbered  forty.  Sunday  after  Sunday  he  had 
conducted  his  three  services.  Twice  a  week 
from  the  old  pulpit,  scanning  through  the 
church  twilight  that  ever  scantier  flock  of  faces, 
he  had  in  his  dry,  spasmodic  voice — whose 
harsh  tones,  no  doubt,  were  music  to  himself — 
pronounced  this  conduct  blessed,  and  that 
accursed,  in  accordance  with  his  creed.  Week 
after  week  he  had  told  us  all  the  sinfulness  of 
not  attending  God's  House,  of  not  observing 
the  Lord's  Day.  He  had  respected  every 
proper  ritual  and  ceremony;  never  refusing 
baptism*  even  to  the  illegitimate,  nor  burial 

32 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

to  any  but  such  as  took  their  own  lives;  join- 
ing in  marriage  with  a  certain  exceptional 
alacrity  those  whose  conduct  had  caused  scan- 
dal in  the  village.  His  face  had  been  set,  too, 
against  irreverence;  no  one,  I  remember, 
might  come  to  his  church  in  flannel  trousers. 

Yet  his  flock  had  slowly  diminished!  Liv- 
ing, unmarried,  in  the  neglected  rectory,  with 
his  dogs,  an  old  housekeeper,  and  a  canary,  he 
seemed  to  have  no  interests,  such  as  shooting, 
or  fishing,  to  take  him  away  from  his  parish 
duties;  he  asked  nothing  better  than  to  enter 
the  houses  and  lives  of  his  parishioners;  and 
as  he  passed  their  doors — spare,  black,  and 
clean-shaven — he  could  often  be  seen  to  stop, 
make,  as  it  were,  a  minatory  gesture,  and  walk 
on  with  his  hungry  eyes  fixed  straight  before 
him.  Year  by  year,  to  encourage  them,  he 
printed  privately  and  distributed  documents 
containing  phrases  such  as  these:  "It  were 
better  for  him  that  a  mill-stone  were  hanged 
about  his  neck,  and  he  were  cast  into  the  sea." 
"But  the  fearful  and  unbelieving  shall  have 
their  part  in  the  lake  which  burneth  with  fire 
and  brimstone."  When  he  wrote  them,  his 

33 


A  MOTLEY 

eyes — I  fancy — flared,  as  though  watching  such 
penalties  in  process  of  infliction.  Had  not  his 
parishioners  in  justice  merited  those  fates? 

If,  in  his  walks,  he  came  across  a  truant, 
some  fisherman  or  farmer,  he  would  always 
stop,  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  culprit's 
face: 

"You  don't  come  to  church  now;  how's 
that?" 

Like  true  Cornishmen,  hoping  to  avoid 
unpleasantness,  they  would  offer  some  polite 
excuse:  They  didn't  knaw  ezactly,  zur — the 
missus  'ad  been  ailin' ;  there  was  always  some- 
thin' — like — that!  This  temporising  with 
the  devil  never  failed  to  make  the  rector's  eyes 
blaze,  or  to  elicit  from  him  a  short  dry  laugh: 
"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  man! 
You  must  be  mad  to  think  you  can  save  your 
soul  that  way!  This  is  a  Christian  country!" 

Yet  never  after  one  of  these  encounters  did 
he  see  the  face  of  that  parishioner  in  his  church 
again.  "Let  un  wait!"  they  would  murmur, 
"tidden  likely  we'm  gwine  to  his  church  t'be 
spoke  to  like  dogs!" 

But,  indeed,  had  they  been  dogs,  the  rector 
34 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

would  not  have  spoken  to  them  like  that.  To 
dogs  his  conduct  was  invariably  gentle.  -  He 
might  be  seen  sometimes  beside  a  field  of 
standing  corn,  where  the  heads  of  his  two 
terriers  could  be  marked  spasmodically  emerg- 
ing above  the  golden  stalks,  as  they  hunted  a 
covey  of  partridges  or  brood  of  young  pheasants 
which  they  had  scented.  His  harsh  voice  could 
be  heard  calling  them:  "Jim,  Jim!  Pat, 
Pat!  To  heel,  you  rascals!"  But  when  they 
came  out,  their  tongues  lolling  ecstatically,  he 
only  stooped  and  shook  his  finger  at  them, 
and  they  would  lick  his  hand,  or  rub  themselves 
against  his  trousers,  confident  that  he  would 
never  strike  them.  With  every  animal,  with 
every  bird  and  insect  he  was  like  this,  so  gentle 
that  they  trusted  him  completely.  He  could 
often  be  surprised  sitting  on  a  high  slate  stile, 
or  standing  in  a  dip  of  the  wide  road  between 
banks  of  gorse  and  bramble,  with  his  head,  in 
its  wide  hat,  rather  to  one  side,  while  a  bull- 
finch or  hedge-sparrow  on  a  branch,  not  three 
feet  off,  would  be  telling  him  its  little  tale. 
Before  going  for  a  walk  he  would  sweep  his 
field-glass  over  the  pale-gold  landscape  of  corn- 

35 


A  MOTLEY 

field,  scorched  pasturage  and  sand-dune,  to  see 
if  any  horse  seemed  needing  water,  or  sheep 
were  lying  on  its  back.  He  was  an  avowed 
enemy,  too,  of  traps  and  gins,  and  whenever  he 
met  with  one,  took  pains  to  ensure  its  catching 
nothing.  Such  consistent  tenderness  to  dumb 
animals  was  perhaps  due  to  a  desire  to  take 
their  side  against  farmers  who  would  not  come 
to  church;  but  more,  I  think,  to  the  feeling 
that  the  poor  things  had  no  souls,  that  they 
were  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow — they 
could  not  be  saved  and  must  be  treated  with 
compassion,  unlike  those  men  with  immortal 
spirits  entrusted  by  God  specially  to  his  care, 
for  whose  wanton  disobedience  no  punishment, 
perhaps,  could  be  too  harsh.  It  was  as  if,  by 
endowing  him  with  Her  authority  over  other 
men,  the  Church  had  divided  him  into  two. 

For  the  view  he  took  of  life  was  very  simple, 
undisturbed  by  any  sense  of  irony,  unspoiled  by 
curiosity,  or  desire  to  link  effect  with  cause,  or 
indeed,  to  admit  the  necessity  of  cause  at  all. 
At  some  fixed  date  God  had  made  the  earth  of 
matter;  this  matter  He  had  divided  into  the 
inanimate  and  the  animate,  unconnected  with 

36 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

each  other;  animate  matter  He  had  again 
divided  into  men,  and  animals;  in  men  He 
had  placed  souls,  making  them  in  His  own 
image.  Men  again  He  had  divided  into  the 
Church  and  other  men;  and  for  the  govern- 
ment and  improvement  of  these  other  men 
God  had  passed  Himself  into  His  Church. 
That  Church  again  had  passed  herself  into  her 
ministers.  Thus,  on  the  Church's  minister- 
placed  by  Providence  beyond  the  fear  of  being 
in  the  wrong — there  had  been  enjoined  the 
bounden  duty  of  instructing,  ruling,  and  sav- 
ing at  all  costs,  the  souls  of  men. 

This  was  why,  I  think,  when  he  encountered 
in  the  simple  folk  committed  to  his  charge  a 
strange  dumb  democratic  spirit,  a  wayward 
feeling  that  the  Universe  was  indivisible,  that 
power  had  not  devolved,  but  had  evolved,  that 
things  were  relative,  not  absolute,  and  so  forth 
— expressed  in  their  simple  way,  he  had  ex- 
perienced from  the  first  a  gnawing  irritation 
which,  like  a  worm,  seemed  to  have  cankered 
his  heart.  Gradually  one  had  seen  this  canker 
stealing  out  into  his  face  and  body,  into  his 
eyes  and  voice,  into  the  very  gestures  of  his 

37 


A  MOTLEY 

lean  arms  and  hands.  His  whole  form  gave 
the  impression  of  a  dark  tree  withered  and 
eaten  by  some  desiccating  wind,  like  the  stiff 
oaks  of  his  Cornish  upland,  gnarled  and  riven 
by  the  Atlantic  gales. 

Night  and  day  in  the  worn  old  rectory,  with 
its  red  conservatory,  he  must  have  brooded 
over  the  wrong  done  him  by  his  people,  in 
depriving  him  of  his  just  due,  the  power  to  save 
their  souls.  It  was  as  though  an  officer,  gagged 
arid  bound  at  the  head  of  his  company,  should 
have  been  forced  to  watch  them  manoeuvring 
without  him.  He  was  like  a  school-master 
tied  to  his  desk  amongst  the  pandemonium 
of  his  scholars.  His  failure  was  a  fact  strange 
and  intolerable  to  him,  inexplicable,  tragic — a 
fact  mured  up  in  the  mystery  which  each 
man's  blindness  to  the  nature  of  his  own  spirit 
wraps  round  his  relations  with  his  fellow  be- 
ings. He  could  not  doubt  that,  bereaved  by 
their  own  wilful  conduct  of  his  ministrations, 
of  the  Church  in  fact,  and,  through  the  Church, 
of  God,  his  parishioners  were  given  up  to  dam- 
nation. If  they  were  thus  given  up  to  damna- 
tion, he,  their  proper  pastor- — their  rightful 

38 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

leader,  the  symbol  of  the  Church,  that  is  of 
God — was  but  a  barren,  withered  thing.  This 
thought  he  could  not  bear.  Unable  to  see 
himself  as  others  saw  him,  he  searched  to  find 
excuses  for  them.  He  found  none;  for  he 
knew  that  he  had  preached  no  narrow  doctrines 
cursed  with  the  bigotry  which  he  recognised 
in  the  Romish  or  Nonconformist  faiths.  The 
doctrines  and  dogmas  he  was  appointed  to 
administer  were  of  the  due  and  necessary 
breadth,  no  more,  no  less.  He  was  scrupulous, 
even  against  his  own  personal  feeling,  to  ob- 
serve the  letter  of  the  encyclicals.  Thus, 
nothing  in  the  matter  of  his  teaching  could 
account  for  the  gradual  defection  of  his  flock. 
Nor  in  the  manner  of  it  could  he  detect  any- 
thing that  seemed  to  himself  unjustified.  Yet, 
as  the  tide  ebbed  from  the  base  of  the  grey 
cliffs,  so,  without  haste,  with  deadly  certainty, 
*the  tide  ebbed  from  his  church.  What  could 
he,  then,  believe  but  that  his  parishioners 
meant  to  be  personally  offensive  to  himself? 

In  the  school-house,  at  the  post  office,  on 
the  green,  at  choir  practice,  or  on  the  way  to 
service,  wherever  he  met  them,  one  could  see 

39 


A  MOTLEY 

that  he  was  perpetually  detecting  small  slights 
or  incivilities.  He  had  come,  I  think,  almost 
to  imagine  that  these  people,  who  never  came 
to  church,  fixed  the  hours  of  their  births  and 
deaths  and  marriages  maliciously,  that  they 
might  mock  at  the  inconvenience  caused  to 
one  who  neither  could,  nor  would,  refuse  to  do 
his  duty.  It  was  blasphemy  they  were  com- 
mitting. In  avoiding  God's  church,  yet  re- 
quiring such  services  of  His  minister,  they 
were  making  God  their  servant. 

One  could  find  him  any  evening  in  his  study, 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  the  oil-lamp  flar- 
ing slightly,  his  dogs  curled  up  beside  him, 
and  the  cloth  cover  drawn  over  the  cage  of  his 
canary  so  that  the  little  creature  should  not 
suffer  from  the  light.  Almost  the  first  words 
he  spoke  would  show  how  ceaselessly  he 
brooded.  "Nothing,"  he  would  say,  "ever 
prospers  in  this  village;  Fve  started  this  and 
that!  Look  at  the  football  club,  look  at  the 
Bible  class — all  no  good!  With  people  such 
as  these,  wanting  in  all  reverence,  humility, 
and  love  of  discipline!  You  have  not  had  the 
dealings  with  them  that  I  have!" 
40 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

In  truth  his  dealings  with  them  had  become 
notorious  throughout  the  district.  A  peti- 
tion, privately  subscribed,  and  presented  to 
the  bishop  for  his  removal  had,  of  course,  met 
with  failure.  A  rector  could  not  be  removed 
from  his  living  for  any  reason — it  had  been 
purchased  for  him  by  his  father.  Nor  could 
his  position  as  minister  be  interfered  with  on 
any  such  excuse  as  that  of  the  mere  personal 
dislike  of  his  parishioners — as  well,  indeed, 
seek  by  petition  to  remove  the  Church  herself. 
The  knowledge  of  his  unassailable  position 
found  expression  among  his  parishioners  in 
dogged  looks,  and  the  words:  "Well,  we  don' 
trouble!" 

It  was  in  the  twentieth  year  of  his  rectorship 
that  a  slight  collision  with  the  parish  council 
drew  from  him  this  letter:  "It  is  my  duty  to 
record  my  intention  to  attend  no  more  meet- 
ings, for  I  cannot,  as  a  Christian,  continue  to 
meet  those  who  obstinately  refuse  to  come  to 
church." 

It  was  then  late  September,  and  the  harvest 
festival  had  been  appointed  for  the  following 
Sunday.  The  week  passed,  but  the  farmers 

41 


A  MOTLEY 

had  provided  no  offerings  for  the  decoration 
of  the  church;  the  fishermen  too,  accustomed 
by  an  old  tradition  in  that  parish  to  supply 
some  purchased  fruit  in  lieu  of  their  shining 
fishes,  sent  nothing.  The  boycott  had  obvi- 
ously been  preconcerted. 

But  when  the  rector  stepped  that  Sunday 
into  the  pulpit  the  church  was  fuller  than  it 
had  been  for  many  years.  Men  and  women 
who  had  long  ceased  to  attend,  had  come, 
possessed  evidently  by  an  itch  to  see  how 
"th'  old  man"  would  take  it.  The  eyes  of 
the  farmers  and  fishermen,  hardened  by  the 
elements,  had  in  them  a  grim  humorous  curi- 
osity, such  as  one  may  remark  in  the  eyes  of 
a  ring  of  men  round  some  poor  wretch,  whom, 
moved  by  a  crude  sense  of  justice,  they  have 
baited  into  the  loss  of  dignity.  Their  faces, 
with  hardly  an  exception,  seemed  to  say: 
"Sir,  we  were  given  neither  hand  nor  voice  in 
the  choosing  of  you.  From  the  first  day  you 
showed  us  the  cloven  hoof.  We  have  never 
wanted  you.  If  we  must  have  you,  let  us  at 
all  events  get  some  sport  out  of  you!" 

The  rector's  white  figure  rising  from  the  dark 
42 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

pulpit  received  without  movement  the  shafts 
of  all  our  glances;  his  own  deep-set  hunger- 
ing eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Bible  in  his  hand. 
He  gave  out  his  text:  "The  kindly  fruits  of 

the  earth,  in  due  season " 

His  voice — strangely  smooth  and  low  that 
morning,  I  remember — began  discoursing  of 
the  beneficence  and  kindliness  of  God,  who 
had  allowed  the  earth  to  provide  men  year  by 
year  with  food,  according  to  their  needs.  It 
was  as  though  the  mellow  sentiment  of  that 
season  of  fruition  had  fallen  on  his  exiled 
spirit.  But  presently  he  paused,  and  lean- 
ing forward,  looked  man  by  man,  woman  by 
woman,  at  us  all.  Those  eyes  now  had  in  them 
the  peculiar  flare  which  we  knew  so  well.  His 
voice  rose  again:  "And  how  have  you  met 
this  benefaction,  my  brethren,  how  have  you 
shown  your  gratitude  to  God,  embodied  in  His 
Church  and  in  me,  Her  appointed  representa- 
tive? Do  you  think,  then,  that  God  will  let 
you  insult  Him  with  impunity?  Do  you  think 
in  your  foolish  pride  that  God  will  suffer  you 
unpunished  to  place  this  conspired  slight  on 
Him?  If  you  imagine  this,  you  are  woefully 

43 


A  MOTLEY 

mistaken.  I  know  the  depths  of  your  re- 
bellious hearts;  I  read  them  like  this  Book. 
You  seek,  you  have  always  sought,  to  set  my 
authority  at  defiance — a  wayward  and  dis- 
obedient generation.  But  let  me  tell  you: 
God,  who  has  set  His  Holy  Church  over  you, 
is  a  just  and  strong  God;  as  a  kind  master 
chastises  his  dogs  for  their  own  good,  so  will 
He  chastise  you.  You  have  sought  to  drive 
me  out  from  among  you — "  and  from  his  pale 
twisting  lips,  through  the  hush,  there  came  a 
sound  like  a  laugh — "to  drive  the  Church, 
to  drive  God  Himself,  away!  You  could  not 
have  made  a  grosser  error.  Do  you  think 
that  we,  in  solemn  charge  of  your  salvation, 
are  to  be  moved  by  such  puerile  rebellion? 
Not  so!  God  has  appointed  us,  to  God  alone 
we  are  accountable.  Not  if  every  man  and 
woman  in  the  parish,  aye,  and  every  child, 
deserted  this  church,  would  I  recoil  one  step 
from  my  duty,  or  resign  my  charge!  As  well 
imagine,  forsooth,  that  your  great  Church  is 
some  poor  man-elected  leader,  subject  to  your 
whims,  and  to  be  deposed  as  the  fancy  takes 
you!  Do  you  conceive  the  nature  of  the 

44 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

Church  and  of  my  office  to  be  so  mean  and 
petty  that  I  am  to  feed  you  with  the  food  you 
wish  me  to  feed  you  with,  to  lead  you  into 
such  fields  as  you  dictate?  No!  my  brethren, 
you  have  not  that  power!  Is  the  shepherd 
elected  by  the  sheep?  Listen  then  to  the 
truth,  or  to  your  peril  be  it!  The  Church  is  a 
rock  set  up  by  God  amongst  the  shifting  sands 
of  life.  It  comes  from  Heaven,  not  from  this 
miserable  earth.  Its  mission  is  to  command, 
yours  to  obey.  If  the  last  man  in  this  Christian 
country  proved  a  rebel  and  a  traitor,  the  Church 
and  her  ministers  would  stand  immovable,  as 
I  stand  here,  firm  in  my  sacred  resolve  to  save 
your  souls.  Go  down  on  your  knees,  and  beg 
God  to  forgive  you  for  the  wanton  insult  you 
have  offered  Him!  .  .  .  Hymn  266:  'Lead, 
kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom  P 

Through  the  grey  aisles,  where  so  great  a 
silence  reigned,  the  notes  of  the  organ  rose. 
The  first  verse  of  that  hymn  was  sung  only  by 
the  choir  and  a  few  women's  voices;  then  one 
by  one  the  men  joined  in.  Our  voices  swelled 
into  a  shout  louder  than  we  had  ever  heard  in 
the  little  church  before — a  mutinous,  harsh, 

45 


A  MOTLEY 

roaring  sound,  as  though,  in  the  words  of  that 
gentle  hymn,  each  one  of  this  grim  congrega- 
tion were  pouring  out  all  the  resentment  in  his 
heart.  The  roar  emerging  through  the  open 
door  must  have  startled  the  passing  tourists, 
and  the  geese  in  the  neighbouring  farmyard. 
It  ended  with  a  groan  like  the  long-drawn  sob 
of  a  wave  sucking  back. 

In  the  village  all  the  next  week  little  except 
this  sermon  was  discussed.  Farmers  and  fish- 
ermen are  men  of  the  world.  The  conditions 
of  their  lives,  which  are  guarded  only  by  their 
own  unremitting  efforts,  which  are  backed  by 
no  authority  save  their  own  courage  in  the  long 
struggle  with  land  and  sea,  gives  them  a  cer- 
tain deep  philosophy.  Amongst  the  fishermen 
there  was  one  white-bearded  old  fellow  who 
even  seemed  to  see  a  deep  significance  in  the 
rector's  sermon.  "Mun  putts  hissel'  above 
us,  like  the  Czar  o'  Roossia,"  he  said,  "  'tes  the 
sperrit  o'  the  thing  that's  wrong.  Talk  o' 
lovin'  kindness,  there's  none  'bout  the  Church, 
'sfar's  I  can  see,  'tes  all:  'Du  this,  or  ye'll  be 
blasted!'  This  man — he's  a  regular  chip  o' 
the  old  block!"  He  spoke,  indeed,  as  though 

46 


A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

the  rector's  attitude  towards  them  were  a 
symbol  of  the  Church's  attitude  to  men. 
Among  the  farmers  such  analogies  were  veiled 
by  the  expression  of  simpler  thoughts: 

"Yu  med  tak'  a  'arse  to  the  watter,  yu  can't 
mak'  un  drink!" 

"Whu  wants  mun,  savin'  our  souls!  Let 
mun  save's  own!" 

"We'm  not  gude  enough  to  listen  to  his 
prachin',  I  rackon!" 

It  was  before  a  congregation  consisting  of  his 
clerk,  two  tourists,  three  old  women,  one  of 
them  stone  deaf,  and  four  little  girls,  that  the 
unfortunate  man  stood  next  Sunday  morning. 

Late  that  same  wild  and  windy  afternoon  a 
jeering  rumour  spread  down  in  the  village: 
"TV  old  man's  up  to  Tresellyn  'Igh  Cliff, 
talkin'  to  the  watters!" 

A  crowd  soon  gathered,  eager  for  the  least 
sensation  that  should  break  monotony.  Be- 
yond the  combe,  above  the  grey  roofs  of  the 
fishing  village,  Tresellyn  High  Cliff  rises  ab- 
ruptly. At  the  top,  on  the  very  edge,  the  tiny 
black  shape  of  a  man  could  be  seen  standing 
47 


A  MOTLEY 

with  his  arms  raised  above  his  head.  Now 
he  kneeled,  then  stood  motionless  for  many 
minutes  with  hands  outstretched;  while  be- 
hind him,  the  white  and  brown  specks  of  his 
two  terriers  were  visible,  couched  along  the 
short  grass.  Suddenly  he  could  be  seen  gesticu- 
lating wildly,  and  the  speck  shapes  of  the  dogs 
leaping  up,  and  cowering  again  as  if  terrified 
at  their  master's  conduct. 

For  two  hours  this  fantastic  show  was  wit- 
nessed by  the  villagers  with  gloating  gravity. 
The  general  verdict  was:  "Th'  old  man's 
carry  in'  on  praaperly."  But  very  gradually 
the  sight  of  that  tiny  black  figure  appealing 
to  his  God — the  God  of  his  Church  militant 
which  lived  by  domination — roused  the  super- 
stition of  men  who  themselves  were  living  in 
primitive  conflict  with  the  elements.  They 
could  not  but  appreciate  what  was  so  in  keep- 
ing with  the  vengeful  spirit  of  a  fighting  race. 
One  could  see  that  they  even  began  to  be 
afraid.  Then  a  great  burst  of  rain,  sweeping 
from  the  sea,  smothered  all  si-ght  of  him. 

Early  next  morning  the  news  spread  that 
the  rector  had  been  found  in  his  arm-chair, 

48 


f  UNIVERSITY    ) 

A  FISHER  OF  MEN 

the  two  dogs  at  his  feet,  and  the  canary  perched 
on  his  dead  hand.  His  clothes  were  unchanged 
and  wet,  as  if  he  had  sunk  into  that  chair,  and 
passed  away,  from  sheer  exhaustion.  The 
body  of  "the  poor  unfortunate  gentleman" — 
the  old  housekeeper  told  me — was  huddled  and 
shrunk  together;  his  chin  rested  on  the  little 
gold  cross  dangling  on  his  vest. 

They  buried  him  in  that  green  spot,  apart 
from  his  parishioners,  which  he  had  selected 
for  his  grave,  placing  on  the  tombstone  these 
words: 


PASTOR  ECCLESLE  BRITANNIOE 
"  GOD  IS  LOVE  " 


1908. 


49 


THE  PRISONER 

ON  a  fine  day  of  early  summer  in  a  London 
garden,  before  the  birds  had  lost  their 
Spring  song,  or  the  trees  dropped  their  last 
blossoms,  our  friend  said  suddenly: 

"Why!  there's  a  goldfinch!"  Blackbirds 
there  were,  and  thrushes,  and  tits  in  plenty,  an 
owl  at  night,  and  a  Christopher  Columbus  of  a 
cuckoo,  who  solemnly,  once  a  year,  mistook 
this  green  island  of  trees  for  the  main  lands  ot 
Kent  and  Surrey,  but  a  goldfinch — never! 

"I  hear  it — over  there!"  he  said  again,  and, 
getting  up,  he  walked  towards  the  house. 

When  he  came  back,  our  friend  sat  down 
again,  and  observed: 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  kept  a  cage-bird!" 
We  admitted  that  our  cook  had  a  canary. 

"A  mule!"  he  remarked,  very  shortly. 

Some  strong  feeling  had  evidently  been 
aroused  in  him  that  neither  of  us  could  under- 
stand. 

51 


A  MOTLEY 

£  Suddenly  he  burst  out: 

"I  can't  bear  things  in  cages;  animals, 
birds,  or  men.  I  hate  to  see  or  think  of  them." 
And  looking  at  us  angrily,  as  though  we  had 
taken  an  advantage  in  drawing  from  him  this 
confession,  he  went  on  quickly: 

"I  was  staying  in  a  German  town  some 
years  ago,  with  a  friend  who  was  making  in- 
quiries into  social  matters.  He  asked  me  one 
day  to  go  over  a  prison  with  him.  I  had  never 
seen  one,  then,  and  I  agreed.  It  was  just  such 
a  day  as  this — a  perfectly  clear  sky,  and  there 
was  that  cool,  dancing  sparkle  on  everything 
that  you  only  see  in  some  parts  of  Germanyjf 
This  prison,  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
town,  was  one  of  those  shaped  like  a  star,  that 
have  been  built  over  there  on  the  plan  of  Pen- 
tonville.  The  system,  they  told  us,  was  the 
same  that  you  might  have  seen  working  here 
many  years  ago.  The  Germans  were  then,  and 
still,  no  doubt,  are,  infatuated  with  the  idea  of 
muring  their  prisoners  up  in  complete  solitude. 
But  it  was  a  new  toy  to  them  then,  and  they 
were  enjoying  it  with  that  sort  of  fanatical 
thoroughness  which  the  Germans  give  to  every- 

52 


THE  PRISONER 

thing  they  take  up.  \l  don't  want  to  describe 

this  prison,  or  what  we  saw  in  it;  as  far  as  an 

institution  run  on  such  dreadful  lines  can  be, 

it  was,  I  daresay,  well-managed  f]  the  Gover- 

jior,  at  all  events,  impressed  me  favourably. 

L! '11  simply  tell  you  of  the  one  thing  which  I 

shall  never  forget,  because  it  symbolised  to  me 

for  ever  the  caging  of  all  creatures,  animal  or 

human,  great  or  small." 

Our  friend  paused;  then,  with  an  added 
irritation  in  his  voice,  as  though  aware  of  doing 
violence  to  his  natural  reserve,  he  went  on: 

"We  had  been  all  over  the  grizzly  place 
when  the  Governor  asked  my  friend  whether 
he  would  like  to  see  one  or  two  of  the  'life7 
prisoners. 

"  'I  will  show  you  one/  he  said,  'who  has 
been  here  twenty-seven  years.  He  is,  you  will 
understand' — I  remember  his  very  words — 
'a  little  worn  by  his  long  confinement,  j  While 
we  were  going  towards  this  prisoner's  cell,  they 
told  us  his  story.  He  had  been  a  cabinet- 
maker's assistant,  and  when  still  quite  a  boy, 
joined  a  gang  of  burglars  to  rob  his  own  em- 
ployer. Surprised  during  the  robbery,  he  had 

53 


A  MOTLEY 

blindly  struck  out,  and  killed  his  employer 
on  the  spot.  He  was  sentenced  to  death,  but, 
on  the  intervention  of  some  Royalty  who  had 
been  upset  by  the  sight  of  corpses,  I  believe 
at  the  battle  of  Sadowa,  his  sentence  was  com- 
muted to  imprisonment  for  life. 
\ilWhen  we  entered  his  cell  he  was  standing 
perfectly  still,  gazing  at  his  work)  He  looked* 
quite  sixty,  though  he  could  not  have  been 
more  than  forty-six — a  bent,  trembling  ruin 
of  a  figure,  covered  by  a  drab-coloured  apron. 
\if is  face  had  the  mealy  hue  and  texture  of  all 
prisoners'  faces/)  He  seemed  to  have  no  feat- 
ures; his  cheeks  were  hollow;  his  eyes  large, 
but,  looking  back,  I  can't  remember  their 
colour — if,  indeed,  they  had  colour  in  them  at 
all.£  As  we  passed  in,  one  by  one,  through  the 
iron  door,  he  took  off  his  round  cap,  drab- 
coloured  too,  like  everything  about  him,  show- 
ing his  dusty,  nearly  bald  head,  with  a  few 
short  grey  hairs  on  end,  and  stood  in  an  at- 
titude of  'attention/  humbly  staring  at  us. 
He  was  like  an  owl  surprised  by  daylight. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  little  child  ill  for  the 
first  time — full  of  bewilderment  at  its  own  suf- 

54 


THE  PRISONER 

fering?  His  face  wgs  like  that,  but  so  ex- 
traordinarily gentle  I^jWe  had  seen  many  of 
the  prisoners,  and  he  was  the  only  one  that 
had  that  awful  gentleness.  The  sound  of  his 
voice,  too:  lJa,  Herr  Ltirektor — new,  Herr 
Direktor!'  soft  and  despairing — I  remember  it 
now — there  was  not  a  breath  of  will-power 
^left."  OUK  friend  paused,  frowning  in  his 
effort  to  re-create  the  scene.  "He  held  in  his 
hand,"  he-went  on  presently,  "a  sheet  of  stiff 
paper,  on  which  he  had  been  transcribing  the 
New  Testament  in  letters  from  a  code  of 
writing  for  the  deal  and  dumb.  When  he 
passed  his  thin  fingers  over  the  type  to  show 
us  how  easily  the  deaf  and  dumb  could  read  it, 
you  could  see  that  his  hands  were  dusty  like  a 
miller's.  There  was  nothing  in  the  cell  to  pro- 
duce that  dust,  and  in  my  belief  it  was  not 
dust  on  his  hands,  but  some  excretion  from 
that  human  plant  running  to  seed.  When  he 
held  the  sheet  of  paper  up,  too,  it  trembled  like 
the  wing  of  an  insect.  One  of  us  asked,  who 
invented  the  system  he  was  working  at,  men- 
tioning some  name.  'Nein,  win,1  he  said,  and 
he  stood  shivering  with  eagerness  to  recollect 

55 


A  MOTLEY 

the  right  name.  At  last  he  drooped  his  head, 
and  mumbled  putf:  '-Ahj  Herr  Direkt&r,  ich 
kann  nichil^  "Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  name 
came  bursting  from  his  lips.  At  that  mo- 
ment, for  the  first  time,  he  actually  looked  like 
a  man.  I  never  before  then  realised  the  value 
of  freedom;  the  real  meaning  of  our  .relations 
with  other  human  beings;  the  necessity  for  the 
mind's  being  burnished  from  minute  to  minute 
by  sights  and  sounds,  by  the  need  for  remem- 
bering and  using  what  we  remember.  This 
fellow,  you  see,  had  no  use  for  memory  in  his 
life;  he  was  like  a  plant  placed  where  no  dew 
can  possibly  fall  on  it.  To  watch  that  look  pass 
over  his  face  at  the  mere  remembrance  of  a 
name  was  like  catching  sight  of  a  tiny  scrap  of 
green  leaf  left  in  the  heart  of  a  withered  shrub. 
Man,  I  tell  you,  is  wonderful — the  most  endur- 
ing creature  that  has  ever  been  produced  !jj 
Our  friend  rose,  and  began- pacing  up  and  dawn, 
is  world  was  not  a  large  one;  about  four- 
teen feet  by  eight.  He'd  lived  in  it  for  twenty- 
seven  years,  without  a  mouse  even  for  a  friend. 
They  do  things  thoroughly  in  prisons.  Think 
of  the  tremendous  vital  force  that  must  go  to 

56 


THE  PRISONER 

the  making  of  the  human  organism,  for  a  man 
to  live  through  that.J.  •  •  What  do  you  im- 
agine/' he  went  on,  turning  to  us  suddenly, 
"kept  even  a  remnant  of  his  reason  alive? — 
Well,  Til  tell  you:  While  we  were  still  look- 
ing at  his  'deaf  and  dumb'  writing,IHe  sud- 
denly handed  us  a  piece  of  wood  about  the 
size  of  a  large  photograph.  It  was  the  picture 
of  a  young  girl,  seated  in  the  very  centre  of  a 
garden,  with  bright-coloured  flowers  in  her 
hand;  in  the  background  was  a  narrow,  twist- 
ing stream  with  some  rushes,  and  a  queer 
bird,  rather  like  a  raven,  standing  on  the  bank. 
And  by  the  side  of  the  girl  a  tree  with  large 
hanging  fruits,  strangely  symmetrical,  unlike 
any  tree  that  ever  grew,  yet  with  something 
in  it  that  is  in  all  trees,  a  look  as  if  they  had 
spirits,  and  were  the  friends  of  man.  The 
girl  was  staring  straight  at  us  with  perfectly 
round,  blue  eyes,  and  the  flowers  she  held  in 
her  hand  seemed  also  to  stare  at  us.  The 
whole  picture,  it  appeared  to  me,  was  full  of — 
what  shall  I  say? — a  kind  of  wonder.  It  had 
all  the  crude  colour  and  drawing  of  an  early 
Italian  painting,  the  same  look  of  difficulty 

57 


A  MOTLEY 

conquered  by  sheer  devotionj  One  of  us 
asked  him  if  he  had  learnt  to  draw  before  his 
imprisonment;  but  the  poor  fellow  misunder- 
stood the  question.  "Neiny  nein,"  he  said, 
"the  Herr  Direktor  knows  I  had  no  model. 
It  is  a  fancy  picture!"  And  the  smile  he  gave 
us  would  have  made  a  devil  weep!  (He  had 
put  into  that  picture  all  that  his  soul  longed 
for — woman,  flowers,  birds,  trees,  blue  sky, 
running  water;  and  all  the  wonder  of  his  spirit 
that  he  was  cut  off  from  them.  He  had  been 
at  work  on  it,  they  said,  for  eighteen  years, 
destroying  and  repeating,  until  he  had  pro- 
duced this,  the  hundredth  version.  It  was  a 
masterpiece.  Yes,  there  he  had  been  for  twenty- 
seven  years,  condemned  for  life  to  this  living 
death — without  scent,  sight,  hearing,  or  touch 
of  any  natural  object,  without  even  the  mem- 
ory of  them,  evolving  from  his  starved  soul 
this  vision  of  a  young  girl  with  eyes  full  of 
wonder,  and  flowers  in  her  hand.  It's  the 
greatest  triumph  of  the  human  spirit,  ^nd  the 
greatest  testimony  to  the  power  of  Art  that  I 
have  ever  seen. '^7 

Our    friend    uttered    a   short    laugh:    "So 
58 


THE  PRISONER 

thick-skinned,  however,  is  a  man's  mind  that 
I  didn't  even  then  grasp  the  agony  of  that 
man's  life.  But  I  did  later.  "\j  happened  to 
see  his  eyes  as  he  was  trying  to  answer  some 
question  of  the  Governor's  about  his  health. 
To  my  dying  day  I  shall  never  forget  them. 
They  were  incarnate  tragedy — all  those  eter- 
nities of  solitude  and  silence  he  had  lived 
through,  all  the  eternities  he  had  still  to  live 
through  before  they  buried  him  in  the  grave- 
yard outside,  were  staring  out  of  them.  They 
had  more  sheer  pitiful  misery  in  them  than 
all  the  eyes  put  together  of  all  the  free  men 
I've  ever  seen.  I  couldn't  stand  the  sight  of 
them,  and  hurried  out  of  the  cell.  I  felt  then, 
ftd-eveg-^incc,  what  they  say  the  Russians  feul 
— for  all  thclHapflca-intQ  savagery^  the  sacred- 
ness  of  suffering.  I  felt  that  we  ought  all  of  us 
to  have  bowed  down  before  him  ;J  that  I, 
though  I  was  free  and  righteous,  was  a  charla- 
tan &|tfl  sinner  in  the  face  of  that  living  cruci- 
fixion. [.Whatever  crime  he  had  committed — I 
don't  care  what  it  was — that  poor  lost  creature 
had  been  so  sinned  against  that  I  was  as  dirt 
beneath  his  feet.  When  I  think  of  him — there 

59 


A  MOTLEY 

still,  for  all  I  know — I  feel  a  sort  of  frenzy  rising 
in  me  against  my  own  kind.  I  feel  the  miser- 
able aching  of  all  the  caged  creatures  in  the 

world."') 

~^ 

^Qur  friend  turned  his  head  away,  and  for 
quiteKa  minute  did  not  speak.  |  "On  our 
way  bade,  I  remember,"  he  said  at  last,  "we 
drove  through  the  Stadt  Park.  There,  it  was 
free  and  light  enough;  every  kind  of  tree — 
limes,  copper  beaches,  oaks,  sycamores,  poplars, 
birches,  and  apple  trees  in  blossom,  were  giving 
out  their  scent;  £very  branch  and  leaf  was 
glistening  with  happiness.  The  place  was  full 
of  birds,  the  symbols  \)f  freedom,  fluttering 
about,  singing  their  loudest  in  the  sun.  Yes, 
it  was  all  enchanted  ground.  And  I  well  re- 
member thinking  that  in  the  whole  range  of 
Nature  only  men  and  spiders  \torture  other 
creatures  in  that  long-drawn-out  kind  of  way; 
and  only  men  do  it  in  cold  blood  toHheir  own 
species.  So  far  as  I  know  that's  a  fact  of  nat- 
ural history;  and  I  can  tell  you  that  to  see, 
once  for  all,  as  I  did,  in  that  man's  eyes>  its 
unutterable  misery,  is  never  to  feeMhe  saW 
towards  your  own  kind  again.  JFhat  night  I 

60 


THE  PRISONER 

sat  in  a  cafe  window,  listening  to  the  music,  the 
talk,  the  laughter,  watching  the  people  pass  in 
the  street — shop-folk,  soldiers,  merchants,  offi- 
cials, priests,  beggars,  aristocrats,  women  of 
pleasure,  and  the  light  streaming  out  from  the 
windows,  and  the  leaves  just  moving  against 
the  most  wonderful,  dark  blue  sky.  But  I 
saw  and  heard  nothing  of  it  all.  I  only  saw  the 
gentle,  mealy-coloured  face  of  that  poor  fellow, 
his  eyes,  and  his  dusty,  trembling  hands,  and 
I  saw  the  picture  that  he  had  painted  there  in 
hell.  I've  seen  it  ever  since,  whenever  I  see 
or  hear  of  any  sort  of  solitary  caged  creature." 
Our  friend  ceased  speaking,  and  very  soon 
after  he  rose,  excused  himself,  and  went  away. 

1909. 


61 


COURAGE 

AT  that  time  (said  Ferrand)  I  was  in  pov- 
erty. Not  the  kind  of  poverty  that 
goes  without  dinner,  but  the  sort  that  goes 
without  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dinner,  and  ex- 
ists as  it  can  on  bread  and  tobacco.  I  lived 
in  one  of  those  fourpenny  lodging-houses, 
Westminster  way.  Three,  five,  seven  beds  in 
a  room;  if  you  pay  regularly,  you  keep  your 
own  bed;  if  not,  they  put  some  one  else  there 
who  will  certainly  leave  you  a  memento  of 
himself.  It's  not  the  foreigners'  quarter;  they 
are  nearly  all  English,  and  drunkards.  Three- 
quarters  of  them  don't  eat — can't;  they  have 
no  capacity  for  solid  food.  They  drink  and 
drink.  They're  not  worth  wasting  your  money 
on — cab-runners,  newspaper-boys,  sellers  of 
laces,  and  what  you  call  sandwichmen;  three- 
fourths  of  them  brutalised  beyond  the  power 
of  recovery.  What  can  you  expect?  They 
just  live  to  scrape  enough  together  to  keep 

63 


A  MOTLEY 

their  souls  in  their  bodies;  they  have  no  time 
or  strength  to  think  of  anything  but  that. 
They  come  back  at  night  and  fall  asleep—and 
how  dead  that  sleep  is!  No,  they  never  eat — 
just  a  bit  of  bread;  the  rest  is  drink! 

There  used  to  come  to  that  house  a  little 
Frenchman,  with  a  yellow,  crowds-footed  face; 
not  old  either,  about  thirty.  But  his  life  had 
been  hard — no  one  comes  to  these  houses  if 
life  is  soft;  especially  no  Frenchman;  a  French- 
man hates  to  leave  his  country.  He  came  to 
shave  us — charged  a  penny;  most  of  us  for- 
got to  pay  him,  so  that  in  all  he  shaved  about 
three  for  a  penny.  He  went  to  others  of  these 
houses — this  gave  him  his  income — he  kept 
the  little  shop  next  door,  too,  but  he  never 
sold  anything.  How  he  worked!  He  also 
went  to  one  of  your  Public  Institutions;  this 
was  not  so  profitable,  for  there  he  was  paid  a 
penny  for  ten  shaves.  He  used  to  say  to  me, 
moving  his  tired  fingers  like  little  yellow 
sticks:  "Pff!  I  slave!  To  gain  a  penny, 
friend,  I'm  spending  fourpence.  What  would 
you  have?  One  must  nourish  oneself  to  have 
the  strength  to  shave  ten  people  for  a  penny." 

64 


COURAGE 

He  was  like  an  ant,  running  round  and  round 
in  his  little  hole,  without  any  chance  but  just 
to  live;  and  always  in  hopes  of  saving  enough 
to  take  him  back  to  France,  and  set  him  up 
there.  We  had  a  liking  for  each  other.  He 
was  the  only  one,  in  fact — except  a  sandwich- 
man  who  had  been  an  actor,  and  was  very  in- 
telligent, when  he  wasn't  drunk — the  only  one 
in  all  that  warren  who  had  ideas.  He  was 
fond  of  pleasure  and  loved  his  music-hall — 
must  have  gone  at  least  twice  a  year,  and  was 
always  talking  of  it.  He  had  little  knowledge 
of  its  joys,  it's  true — hadn't  the  money  for  that, 
but  his  intentions  were  good.  He  used  to  keep 
me  till  the  last,  and  shave  me  slowly. 

"This  rests  me,"  he  would  say.  It  was 
amusement  for  me,  too,  for  I  had  got  into  the 
habit  of  going  for  days  without  opening  my 
lips.  It's  only  a  man  here  and  there  one  can 
talk  with;  the  rest  only  laugh;  you  seem  to 
them  a  fool,  a  freak — something  that  should 
be  put  into  a  cage  or  tied  by  the  leg. 

"Yes,"  the  little  man  would  say,  "when  I 
came  here  first  I  thought  I  should  soon  go 
back,  but  now  I'm  not  so  sure.  I'm  losing  my 

65 


A  MOTLEY 

illusions.  Money  has  wings,  but  it's  not  to 
me  it  flies.  .Believe  me,  friend,  I  am  shaving 
my  soul  into  these  specimens.  And  how 
unhappy  they  are,  poor  creatures;  how  they 
must  suffer!  Drink!  you  say.  Yes,  that 
saves  them — they  get  a  little  happiness  from 
that.  Unfortunately,  I  haven't  the  constitu- 
tion for  it — here."  And  he  would  show  me 
where  he  had  no  constitution.  "You,  too, 
comrade,  you  don't  seem  to  be  in  luck;  but 
then,  you're  young.  Ah,  well,  faut  etre  philo- 
sophe — but  imagine  what  kind  of  a  game  it  is 
in  this  climate,  especially  if  you  come  from  the 
South!" 

When  I  went  away,  which  was  as  soon  as  I 
had  nothing  left  to  pawn,  he  gave  me  money — 
there's  no  question  of  lending  in  those  houses: 
if  a  man  parts  with  money  he  gives  it;  and 
lucky  if  he's  not  robbed  into  the  bargain. 
There  are  fellows  there  who  watch  for  a  new 
pair  of  shoes,  or  a  good  overcoat,  profit  by  their 
wakefulness  as  soon  as  the  other  is  asleep,  and 
promptly  disappear.  There's  no  morality  in 
the  face  of  destitution — it  needs  a  man  of  iron, 
and  these  are  men  of  straw.  But  one  thing 

66 


COURAGE 

I  will  say  of  the  low  English — they  are  not 
bloodthirsty,  like  the  low  French  and  Italians. 

Well,  I  got  a  job  as  fireman  on  a  steamer, 
made  a  tour  tramping,  and  six  months  later  I 
was  back  again.  The  first  morning  I  saw  the 
Frenchman.  It  was  shaving-day;  he  was  more 
like  an  ant  than  ever,  working  away  with  all 
his  legs  and  arms;  a  little  yellower,  and  per- 
haps more  wrinkled. 

"Ah!"  he  called  out  to  me  in  French, 
"there  you  are — back  again.  I  knew  you'd 
come.  Wait  till  I've  finished  with  this  speci- 
men— I've  a  lot  to  talk  about." 

We  went  into  the  kitchen,  a  big  stone-floored 
room,  with  tables  for  eating — and  sat  down 
by  the  fire.  It  was  January,  but,  summer  or 
winter,  there's  always  a  fire  burning  in  that 
kitchen. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you  have  come  back?  No 
luck?  Eh!  Patience!  A  few  more  days  won't 
kill  you  at  your  age.  What  fogs,  though! 
You  see,  I'm  still  here,  but  my  comrade, 
Pigon,  is  dead.  You  remember  him — the  big 
man  with  black  hair  who  had  the  shop  down 
the  street.  Amiable  fellow,  good  friend  to 

67 


A  MOTLEY 

me;  and  married.  Fine  woman  his  wife — a 
little  ripe,  seeing  she  has  had  children,  but  of 
good  family.  He  died  suddenly  of  heart  dis- 
ease. Wait  a  bit;  Til  tell  you  about  that.  .  .  . 

"It  was  not  long  after  you  went  away,  one 
fine  day  in  October,  when  I  had  just  finished 
with  these  specimens  here,  and  was  taking  my 
coffee  in  the  shop,  and  thinking  of  that  poor 
Pigon — dead  then  just  three  days — when  pom! 
comes  a  knock,  and  there  is  Madame  Pigon! 
Very  calm — a  woman  of  good  family,  well 
brought  up,  well  made — fine  woman.  But 
the  cheeks  pale,  and  the  eyes  so  red,  poor 
soul. 

"  'Well,  Madame/  I  asked  her,  'what  can  I 
do  for  you?' 

"It  seems  this  poor  Pigon  died  bankrupt; 
there  was  not  a  cent  in  the  shop.  He  was  two 
days  in  his  grave,  and  the  bailiffs  in  already. 

"  'Ah,  Monsieur!'  she  says  to  me,  'what 
am  I  to  do?7 

"  'Wait  a  bit,  Madame!'  I  get  my  hat  and 
go  back  to  the  shop  with  her. 

"What  a  scene!  Two  bailiffs,  who  would 
have  been  the  better  for  a  shave,  sitting  in  a 

68 


COURAGE 

shop  before  the  basins;  and  everywhere,  ma 
foi,  everywhere,  children!  Tk!  Tk!  A  little 
girl  of  ten,  very  like  her  mother;  two  little 
boys  with  little  trousers,  and  one  with  nothing 
but  a  chemise;  and  others — two,  quite  small, 
all  rolling  on  the  floor;  and  what  a  horrible 
noise! — all  crying,  all  but  the  little  girl,  fit  to 
break  themselves  in  two.  The  bailiffs  seemed 
perplexed.  It  was  enough  to  make  one  weep! 
Seven!  and  some  quite  small!  That  poor 
Pigon,  I  had  no  idea! 

"The  bailiffs  behaved  very  well. 

"  'Well/  said  the  biggest,  'you  can  have 
four-and-twenty  hours  to  find  this  money;  my 
mate  can  camp  out  here  in  the  shop — we  don't 
want  to  be  hard  on  you!' 

"I  helped  Madame  to  soothe  the  children. 

"  'If  I  had  the  money/  I  said,  'it  should  be 
at  your  service,  Madame — in  each  well-born 
heart  there  should  exist  humanity;  but  I 
have  no  money.  Try  and  think  whether  you 
have  no  friends  to  help  you.' 

"  'Monsieur/  she  answered,  'I  have  none. 
Have  I  had  time  to  make  friends — I,  with 
seven  children?' 

69 


A  MOTLEY 

"  'But  in  France,  Madame?' 

"  'None,  Monsieur.  I  have  quarrelled  with 
my  family;  and  reflect — it  is  now  seven  years 
since  we  came  to  England,  and  then  only  be- 
cause no  one  would  help  us.'  That  seemed 
to  me  bad,  but  what  could  I  do?  I  could  only 
say 

"  'Hope  always,  Madame — trust  in  me!' 

"I  went  away.  All  day  long  I  thought  how 
calm  she  was — magnificent!  And  I  kept  say- 
ing to  myself:  'Come,  tap  your  head!  tap 
your  head!  Something  must  be  done!'  But 
nothing  came. 

"The  next  morning  it  was  my  day  to  go 
to  that  sacred  Institution,  and  I  started  off 
still  thinking  what  on  earth  could  be  done  for 
the  poor  woman;  it  was  as  if  the  little  ones  had 
got  hold  of  my  legs  and  were  dragging  at  me. 
I  arrived  late,  and,  to  make  up  time,  I  shaved 
them  as  I  have  never  shaved  them;  a  hot 
morning — I  perspired!  Ten  for  a  penny!  Ten 
for  a  penny!  I  thought  of  that,  and  of  the 
poor  woman.  At  last  I  finished  and  sat  down. 
I  thought  to  myself:  'It's  too  strong!  Why 
do  you  do  it?  It's  stupid!  You  are  wasting 

70 


COURAGE 

yourself!'    And  then,  my  idea  came  to  me! 
I  asked  for  the  manager. 

"  'Monsieur/  I  said,  'it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  come  here  again/ 

"  'What  do  you  mean?7  says  he. 

"  'I  have  had  enough  of  your — "ten  for  a 
penny" — I  am  going  to  get  married;  I  can't 
afford  to  come  here  any  longer.  I  lose  too 
much  flesh  for  the  money/ 

"  'What?7  he  says,  '  you're  a  lucky  man  if 
you  can  afford  to  throw  away  your  money 
like  this!' 

"  'Throw  away  my  money!  Pardon,  Mon- 
sieur, but  look  at  me' — I  was  still  very  hot 
— 'for  every  penny  I  make  I  lose  threepence, 
not  counting  the  boot  leather  to  and  fro. 
While  I  was  still  a  bachelor,  Monsieur,  it  was 
my  own  affair — I  could  afford  these  extrava- 
gances; but  now — it  must  finish — I  have  the 
honour,  Monsieur!' 

"I  left  him,  and  walked  away.  I  went  to 
the  Pigons'  shop.  The  bailiff  was  still  there— 
Pfui!  He  must  have  been  smoking  all  the  time. 

"  'I  can't  give  them  much  longer,'  he  said 
to  me. 

71 


A  MOTLEY 

"  ' It  is  of  no  importance/  I  replied;  and  I 
knocked,  and  went  in  to  the  back  room. 

"The  children  were  playing  in  the  corner, 
that  little  girl,  a  heart  of  gold,  watching  them 
like  a  mother;  and  Madame  at  the  table  with  a 
pair  of  old  black  gloves  on  her  hands.  My 
friend,  I  have  never  seen  such  a  face — calm, 
but  so  pale,  so  frightfully  discouraged,  so 
overwhelmed.  One  would  say  she  was  waiting 
for  her  death.  It  was  bad,  it  was  bad — with 
the  winter  coming  on! 

"  'Good  morning,  Madame/  I  said.  'What 
news?  Have  you  been  able  to  arrange  any- 
thing?' 

"  'No,  Monsieur.    And  you?' 

"  'No!'  And  I  looked  at  her  again — a  fine 
woman;  ah!  a  fine  woman. 

"  'But/  I  said,  'an  idea  has  come  to  me  this 
morning.  Now,  what  would  you  say  if  I  asked 
you  to  marry  me?  It  might  possibly  be 
better  than  nothing.' 

"She  regarded  me  with  her  black  eyes,  and 
answered — 

"  'But  willingly,  Monsieur!'  and  then,  com- 
rade, but  not  till  then,  she  cried." 

72 


COURAGE 

The  little  Frenchman  stopped,  and  stared 
at  me  hard. 

"H'm!"  I  said  at  last,  "you  have  courage!" 

He  looked  at  me  again;  his  eyes  were 
troubled,  as  if  I  had  paid  him  a  bad  compli- 
ment. 

"You  think  so?"  he  said  at  last,  and  I 
saw  that  the  thought  was  gnawing  at  him, 
as  if  I  had  turned  the  light  on  some  desperate, 
dark  feeling  in  his  heart. 

"Yes!"  he  said,  taking  his  time,  while  his 
good  yellow  face  wrinkled  and  wrinkled,  and 
each  wrinkle  seemed  to  darken:  "I  was  afraid 
of  it  even  when  I  did  it.  Seven  children!" 
Once  more  he  looked  at  me:  "And  since!— 
sometimes — sometimes — I  could — "  he  broke 
off,  then  burst  out  again: 

"Life  is  hard!  What  would  you  have? 
I  knew  her  husband.  Could  I  leave  her  to 
the  streets?" 

1904. 


73 


THE  MEETING 

WALKING  one  day  in  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, I  strolled  into  the  enclosure  of 
the  tea  kiosque  and  sat  down  on  the  side  shel- 
tered from  the  east,  where  fashionable  people 
never  go. 

The  new-fledged  leaves  were  swinging  in 
a  breeze  that  kept  stealing  up  in  puffs  under 
the  half-bare  branches;  sparrows  and  pigeons 
hunted  on  the  grass  for  crumbs;  and  all  the 
biscuit-coloured  chairs  and  little  round-topped 
marble  tripods,  with  thick  inverted  cups  and 
solitary  bowls  of  sugar,  were  sending  out  their 
somewhat  bleak  invitation.  A  few  of  these 
tables  were  occupied;  at  one  sat  a  pale,  thin 
child  in  an  enormous  white  hat,  in  the  company 
of  a  cheery  little  red-cross  nurse  and  a  lady 
in  grey,  whose  pathetic,  half-thankful  eyes 
betokened  a  struggling  convalescence;  at  an- 
other, two  ladies — Americans,  perhaps — with 
pleasant,  keen,  brown  faces,  were  munching 

75 


A  MOTLEY 

rolls;  at  a  third,  an  old  square  man,  bald 
and  grey,  sat  smoking.  At  short  intervals,  like 
the  very  heart's  cry  of  that  Spring  day,  came 
the  scream  of  the  peacocks  from  across  the 
water. 

Presently  there  strolled  along  the  gravel 
space  from  right  to  left  a  young  man  in  a 
fashionable  cut-away  coat,  shining  top-hat, 
and  patent  boots,  swinging  a  cane.  His  face 
was  fresh  and  high-coloured,  with  little  twisted 
dark  moustaches,  and  bold,  bright  eyes.  He 
walked  like  an  athlete,  whose  legs  and  loins 
are  hard  with  muscle;  and  he  looked  about  him 
with  exaggerated  nonchalance.  But  under  his 
swagger  I  detected  expectation,  anxiety,  de- 
fiance. He  re-passed,  evidently  looking  for 
some  one,  and  I  lost  sight  of  him. 

But  presently  he  came  back,  and  this  time  he 
had  her  with  him.  Oh!  She  was  a  pretty 
soul,  with  her  veil,  and  her  flower-like  face 
behind  it,  and  her  quick  glances  to  left  and 
right;  and  her  little  put-on  air  of  perfect 
ease,  of  perfect — how  shall  we  call  it? — justifi- 
cation. And  yet  behind  all  this,  too,  was 
a  subtle  mixture  of  feelings — of  dainty  dis- 

76 


THE  MEETING 

pleasure  at  her  own  position,  of  unholy  satis- 
faction, of  desire  not  to  be  caught.  And  he? 
How  changed!  His  eyes,  no  longer  bold  and 
uneasy,  were  full  of  humble  delight,  of  defer- 
ential worship;  his  look  of  animal  nonchalance 
was  gone. 

Choosing  a  table  not  far  from  mine,  which 
had,  as  it  were,  a  certain  strategic  value,  he 
drew  her  chair  back  for  her,  and  down  they  sat. 
I  could  not  hear  their  talk,  but  I  could  watch 
them,  and  knew  as  well  as  if  they  had  told  me 
in  so  many  words  that  this  was  their  first 
stolen  meeting.  That  first  meeting,  which 
must  not  be  seen,  or  rather  the  first  meeting  that 
both  felt  must  not  be  seen — a  very  different 
thing.  They  had  stepped  in  their  own  minds 
over  the  unmarked  boundary  of  convention.  It 
was  a  moment  that  had  perhaps  been  months 
in  coming,  the  preliminary  moment  that  in 
each  love  affair  comes  only  once,  and  makes  all 
the  after  poignancy  so  easy. 

Their  eyes  told  the  whole  story — hers  rest- 
lessly watchful  of  all  around,  with  sudden 
clingings  to  his;  and  his,  with  their  attempt  at 
composure,  and  obvious  devotion.  And  it  was 

77 


A  MOTLEY 

psychologically  amusing  to  see  the  difference 
between  the  woman  and  the  man.  In  the 
midst  of  the  stolen  joy  she  had  her  eye  on  the 
world,  instinctively  deferring  to  its  opinion, 
owning,  so  to  speak,  that  she  was  in  the  wrong; 
while  he  was  only  concerned  with  striving  not 
to  lower  himself  in  his  own  estimation  by  look- 
ing ridiculous.  His  deference  to  the  world's 
opinion  had  gone  by  the  board,  now  that  he 
was  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"D — n  the  world!"  he  said  to  himself; 
while  she,  still  watching  the  world  as  a  cat 
watches  some  bullying  dog,  knew  she  need  not 
trouble  about  looking  ridiculous — she  would 
never  look  that.  And  when  their  eyes  met, 
and  could  not  for  a  moment  tear  themselves 
apart,  it  gave  one  an  ache  in  the  heart,  the 
ache  that  the  cry  of  the  peacock  brings,  or  the 
first  Spring  scent  of  the  sycamores. 

And  I  began  wondering.  The  inevitable 
life  of  their  love,  just  flowering  like  the  trees, 
the  inevitable  life  with  its  budding,  and  blos- 
som, and  decay,  started  up  before  me.  Were 
they  those  exceptional  people  that  falsify  all 
expectation  and  prove  the  rule?  Not  they! 

78 


THE  MEETING 

They  were  just  the  pair  of  lovers,  the  man  and 
woman,  clean,  and  vigorous,  and  young,  with 
the  Spring  in  their  blood — fresh-run,  as  they 
say  of  the  salmon,  and  as  certain  to  drift  back 
to  the  sea  at  the  appointed  time.  On  that 
couple  bending  their  heads  together,  morals 
and  prophecies  were  as  little  likely  to  take 
effect  as  a  sleet  shower  on  the  inevitable  march 
of  Spring. 

I  thought  of  what  was  in  store — for  him,  the 
hours  of  waiting,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth, 
tortured  by  not  knowing  whether  she  would 
come,  or  why  she  did  not  come.  And  for 
her  the  hours  of  doubt:  "Does  he  really  love 
me?  He  cannot  really  love  me!"  The  stolen 
meetings,  whose  rapture  has  gone  almost  as 
soon  as  come,  in  thought  of  the  parting;  the 
partings  themselves — the  tearing  asunder  of 
eyes,  the  terrible  blank  emptiness  in  the  heart; 
and  the  beginning  of  waiting  again.  And  then 
for  her,  the  surreptitious  terrors  and  delights 
of  the  "post,"  that  one  particular  delivery 
agreed  on  for  safety;  the  excuses  for  going  out, 
for  secrecy,  for  solitude.  And  for  him,  the 
journeys  past  the  house  after  dark  to  see  the 

79 


A  MOTLEY 

lights  in  the  windows,  to  judge  from  them 
what  was  going  on;  and  the  cold  perspirations, 
and  furies  of  jealousy  and  terror;  the  hours  of 
hard  walking  to  drive  away  the  fit;  the  hours 
of  sleepless  desire. 

And  then  the  hour,  the  inevitable  hour  of 
some  stolen  day  on  the  river,  or  under  the 
sheltering  cover  of  a  wood;  and  that  face  of 
hers  on  the  journey  home,  and  his  offer  to 
commit  suicide,  to  relieve  her  of  his  presence; 
and  the  hard-wrung  promise  to  meet  once 
more.  And  the  next  meeting,  the  countless 
procession  of  meetings.  The  fierce  delights, 
the  utter  lassitudes — and  always  like  the  ground 
bass  of  an  accompaniment,  the  endless  subter- 
fuge. And  then — the  slow  gradual  process  of 
cooling — the  beginning  of  excuses,  the  perpet- 
ual weaving  of  self- justification;  the  solemn 
and  logical  self-apologies;  the  finding  ©f  flaws 
in  each  other,  humiliating  oaths  and  protesta- 
tions; and  finally  the  day  when  she  did  not 
come,  or  he  did  not  come.  And  then — the  let- 
ters; the  sudden  rapprochement,  and  the  still 
more  sudden — end. 

It  all  came  before  the  mind,  like  the  scenes 
80 


THE  MEETING 

of  a  cinematograph;  but  beneath  the  table  I 
saw  their  hands  steal  together,  and  solemn 
prophetic  visions  vanished.  Wisdom,  and 
knowledge,  and  the  rest,  what  were  they  all  to 
that  caress! 

So,  getting  up,  I  left  them  there,  and  walked 
away  under  the  chestnut  trees,  with  the  cry  of 
the  peacock  following. 

1904. 


81 


THE  PACK 

"TT'S  only,"  said  H.,  "when  men  run  in 
JL  packs  that  the^  lose  their  sense  of  de- 
cency. At  least  that's  my  experience.  Indi- 
vidual man — I'm  not  speaking  of  savages- 
is  more  given  to  generosity  than  meanness, 
rarely  brutal,  inclines  in  fact  to  be  a  gentleman. 
It's  when  you  add  three  or  four  more  to  him 
that  his  sense  of  decency,  his  sense  of  personal 
responsibility,  his  private  standards,  go  by  the 
board.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  he  does  not 
become  the  victim  of  a  certain  infectious  fever. 
Something  physical  takes  place,  I  fancy  .  .  . 
I  happen  to  be  a  trustee,  with  three  others, 
and  we  do  a  deal  of  cheeseparing  in  the  year, 
which  as  private  individuals  we  should  never 
dream  of." 

"That/s  hardly  a  fair  example,"  said  D., 
"but  on  the  whole,  I  quite  agree.  Single 
man  is  not  an  angel,  collective  man  is  a  bit 
of  a  brute." 

83 


A  MOTLEY 

The  discussion  was  carried  on  for  several 
minutes,  and  then  P.,  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
said:  "They  say  a  pinch  of  illustration  is 
worth  a  pound  of  argument.  When  I  was  at 
the  'Varsity  there  was  a  man  at  the  same 
college  with  me  called  Chalkcroft,  the  son  of  a 
high  ecclesiastic,  a  perfectly  harmless,  well- 
mannered  individual,  who  had  the  misfortune 
to  be  a  Radical,  or,  as  some  even  thought,  a 
Socialist — anyway,  he  wore  a  turn-down  col- 
lar, a  green  tie,  took  part  in  Union  debates  on 
the  shady  side,  and  no  part  in  college  festivi- 
ties. He  was,  in  fact,  a  "smug" — a  man,  as 
you  know,  who,  through  some  accident  of  his 
early  environment,  incomprehensibly  fails  to 
adopt  the  proper  view  of  life.  He  was  never 
drunk,  not  even  pleasantly,  played  no  games 
connected  with  a  ball,  was  believed  to  be 
afraid  of  a  horse  or  a  woman,  took  his  exercise 
in  long  walks  with  a  man  from  another  college, 
or  solitarily  in  a  skiff  upon  the  river;  he  also 
read  books,  and  was  prepared  to  discuss  ab- 
stract propositions.  Thus,  in  one  way  or  an- 
other he  disgusted  almost  every  self-respecting 
under-graduate.  Don't  imagine,  of  course,  that 

84 


THE  PACK 

his  case  was  unusual;   we  had  many  such  at 

M in  my  time;  but  about  this  Chalkcroft 

there  was  an  unjustifiable  composure,  a  quiet 
sarcasm,  which  made  him  conspicuously  in- 
tolerable. He  was  thought  to  be  a  "  bit  above 
himself,"  or,  rather,  he  did  not  seem  conscious, 
as  any  proper  "smug"  should,  that  he  was  a 
bit  below  his  fellows;  on  the  contrary,  his 
figure,  which  was  slim,  and  slightly  stooping, 
passed  in  and  about  college  with  serene  assur- 
ance; his  pale  face  with  its  traces  of  reprehen- 
sible whisker,  wore  a  faint  smile  above  his  de- 
tested green  tie;  besides,  he  showed  no  signs 
of  that  poverty  which  is,  of  course,  some  justi- 
fication to  "smugs"  for  their  lack  of  conformity. 
And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  not  poor,  but 
had  some  of  the  best  rooms  in  college,  which 
was  ever  a  remembered  grievance  against  him. 
For  these  reasons,  then,"  went  on  P.,  "it 
was  decided  one  evening  to  bring  him  to  trial. 
This  salutary  custom  had  originated  in  the 
mind  of  a  third  year  man  named  Jefferies,  a 
dark  person  with  a  kind  of  elephant-like  un- 
wieldiness  in  his  nose  and  walk,  a  biting,  witty 
tongue,  and  very  small  eyes  with  a  lecherous 

85 


A  MOTLEY 

expression.  He  is  now  a  Scottish  baronet. 
This  gentleman  in  his  cups  had  quite  a  pretty 
malice,  and  a  sense  of  the  dignity  of  the  law. 
Wandering  of  a  night  in  the  quadrangles,  he 
never  had  any  difficulty  in  gathering  a  troop 
of  fellows  in  search  of  distraction,  or  animated 
by  public  and  other  spirits;  and,  with  them 
whooping  and  crowing  at  his  heels,  it  was  his 
beneficial  practice  to  enter  the  rooms  of  any 
person,  who  for  good  and  sufficient  reasons 
merited  trial,  and  thereupon  to  conduct  the 
same  with  all  the  ceremony  due  to  the  dispen- 
sation of  British  justice.  I  had  attended  one  of 
these  trials  before,  on  a  chuckle-headed  youth 
whose  buffoonery  was  really  offensive.  The 
ceremony  was  funny  enough,  nor  did  the  youth 
seem  to  mind,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  and 
ejaculating  continually,  'Oh!  I  say,  JefferiesP 
"The  occasion  of  which  I  am  going  to  speak 
now  was  a  different  sort  of  affair  altogether. 
We  found  the  man  Chalkcroft  at  home,  read- 
ing before  his  fire  by  the  light  of  three  candles. 
The  room  was  panelled  in  black  oak,  and  the 
yellow  candle  flames  barely  lit  up  the  darkness 
as  we  came  whooping  in. 

86 


THE  PACK 

"  'Chalkcroft/  said  Jefferies,  'we  are  going 
to  try  you.1  Chalkcroft  stood  up  and  looked 
at  us.  He  was  in  a  Norfolk  jacket,  with  his 
customary  green  tie,  and  his  face  was  pale. 

"He  answered:  'Yes,  Jefferies?  You  for- 
got to  knock.' 

"  Jefferies  put  out  his  finger  and  thumb  and 
delicately  plucked  Chalkcroft's  tie  from  out  of 
his  waistcoat. 

"  'You  wear  a  green  tie,  sir/  he  said. 

"Chalkcroft  went  the  colour  of  the  ashes  in 
the  grate;  then,  slowly,  a  white-hot  glow  came 
into  his  cheeks. 

"  'Don't  look  at  me,  sir/  said  Jefferies; 
'look  at  the  jury!'  and  he  waved  his  hand  at 
us.  '  We  are  going  to  try  you  for — '  He  speci- 
fied an  incident  of  a  scabrous  character  which 
served  as  the  charge  on  all  such  humorous 
occasions,  and  was  likely  to  be  peculiarly  offen- 
sive to  'smugs'  who  are  usually,  as  you  know, 
what  is  called  'pi.' 

"We  yelped,  guffawed,  and  settled  our- 
selves in  chairs;  Jefferies  perched  himself  on  a 
table  and  slowly  swung  his  thin  legs;  he  always 
wore  very  tight  trousers.  His  little  black  eyes 

87 


A  MOTLEY 

gleamed   greedily   above   his   unwieldy   nose. 
Chalkcroft  remained  standing. 

"It  was  then,"  pursued  P.,  "that  I  had  my 
first  qualm.  The  fellow  was  so  still  and  pale 
and  unmoved;  he  looked  at  me,  and,  when 
I  tried  to  stare  back,  his  eyes  passed  me  over, 
quiet  and  contemptuous.  And  I  remember 
thinking:  'Why  are  we  all  here — we  are  not  a 
bit  the  kind  of  men  to  do  this  sort  of  thing?' 
And  really  we  were  not.  With  the  exception 
of  Jefferies,  who  was,  no  doubt,  at  times  in- 
habited by  a  devil,  and  one  Anderson,  a  little 
man  in  a  long  coat,  with  a  red  nose  and  very 
long  arms,  always  half-drunk — a  sort  of  des- 
perate character,  and  long  since,  of  course,  a 
schoolmaster — there  wasn't  one  of  us,  who,  left 
to  himself,  would  have  entered  another  man's 
rooms  unbidden  (however  unpopular  he  might 
be,  however  much  of  a  'smug'),  and  insulted 
him  to  his  face.  There  was  Beal,  a  very  fair, 
rather  good-looking  man,  with  bowed  legs  and 
no  expression  to  speak  of,  known  as  Boshy 
Beal;  Dunsdale,  a  heavy,  long-faced,  freckled 
person,  prominent  in  every  college  disturbance, 
but  with  a  reputation  for  respectability;  Hor- 

88 


THE  PACK 

den  (called  Jos),  a  big,  clean-cut  Kentish  man 
with  nice  eyes,  and  fists  like  hammers;  Stick- 
land,  fussy,  with  mild  habits;  Sevenoax,  now 
in  the  House  of  Lords;  little  Holingbroke,  the 
cox;  and  my  old  schoolfellow,  Fosdyke,  whose 
dignity  even  then  would  certainly  have  forbid- 
den his  presence  had  he  not  previously  dined. 
Thus,  as  you  see,  we  were  all  or  nearly  all  from 
the  'best'  schools  in  the  country,  in  the  'best' 

set  at  M ,  and  naturally,  as  individuals, 

quite — oh!  quite — incapable  of  an  ungentle- 
manlike  act. 

"Jefferies  appointed  Anderson  gaoler,  Duns- 
dale  Public  Prosecutor,  no  one  counsel  for  the 
defence,  the  rest  of  us  jury,  himself  judge,  and 
opened  the  trial.  He  was,  as  I  have  said,  a 
witty  young  man,  and,  dangling  his  legs,  fasten- 
ing his  malevolent  black  eyes  on  Chalkcroft,  he 
usurped  the  functions  of  us  all.  The  nature  of 
the  charge  precludes  me  from  recounting  to 
you  the  details  of  the  trial,  and,  in  fact,  I  have 
forgotten  them,  but  as  if  he  were  standing  here 
before  us,  I  remember,  in  the  dim  glow  of 
those  three  candles,  Chalkcroft's  pale,  unmoved, 
ironic  face;  his  unvarying,  'Yes,  Jefferies'; 

89 


A  MOTLEY 

his  one  remonstrance:  'Are  you  a  gentleman, 
Jefferies?'  and  our  insane  laughter  at  the  an- 
swer: 'No,  sir,  a  by-our-Lady  judge/  As  if 
he  were  standing  here  before  us  I  remember 
the  expression  on  his  face  at  the  question: 
'Prisoner,  are  you  guilty — yes  or  no?'  the  long 
pause,  the  slow,  sarcastic:  'As  you  like,  Jef- 
feries.' As  if  he  were  standing  here  before  us 
I  remember  his  calm  and  his  contempt.  He 
was  sentenced  to  drink  a  tumbler  of  his  own 
port  without  stopping;  whether  the  sentence 
was  carried  out  I  cannot  tell  you;  for  with 
one  or  two  more  I  slipped  away. 

"The  next  morning  I  had  such  a  sense  of 
discomfort  that  I  could  not  rest  till  I  had  sent 
Chalkcroft  a  letter  of  apology.  I  caught  sight 
of  him  in  the  afternoon  walking  across  the 
quad,  with  his  usual  pale  assurance,  and  in  the 
evening  I  received  his  answer.  It  contained, 
at  the  end,  this  sentence:  'I  feel  sure  you 
would  not  have  come  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
others.'  It  has  occurred  to  me  since  that  he 
may  have  said  the  same  thing  to  us  all — for 
anything  I  know,  we  may  all  of  us  have  writ- 
ten." 

90 


THE  PACK 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  H.  said:  "The 
Pack!  Ah!  What  second-hand  devil  is  it 
that  gets  into  us  when  we  run  in  packs?" 

1905. 


91 


COMPENSATION 


~TF,  as  you  say  (said  Ferrand),  there  is  com- 
A  pensation  in  this  life  for  everything,  do 
tell  me  where  it  comes  in  here. 

Two  years  ago  I  was  interpreter  to  an  hotel 
in  Ostend,  and  spent  many  hours  on  the  Plage 
waiting  for  the  steamers  to  bring  sheep  to  my 
slaughter.  There  was  a  young  man  about, 
that  year,  who  had  a  stall  of  cheap  jewellery; 

fl  don't  know  his  name,  for  among  us  he  was 
called  Tchuk-Tchuk;"fbut  I  knew  him — for  we 
interpreters  know  everybody.  (He  came  from 
Southern  Italy  and  called  himself  an  Italian, 
but  by  birth  he  was  probably  an  Algerian  Jewji 
an  intelligent  boy,  who  knew  that,  except  m 
England,  it  is  far  from  profitable  to  be  a  Jew 
in  these  days.  After  seeing  his  nose  and  his 
beautiful  head  of  frizzy  hair,  however,  there 
was  little  more  to  be  said  on  the  subject.  His 
clothes  had  been  given  him  by  an  English 
tourist — a  pair  of  flannel  trousers,  an  old 

93 


A  MOTLEY 

frock  coat,  a  bowler  hat.  Incongruous?  Yes, 
but  think,  how  cheap!  The  only  thing  that 
looked  natural  to  him  was  his  tie;  he  had  un- 
sewn  the  ends  and  wore  it  without  a  collar. 
He  was  little  and  thin,  which  was  not  surpris- 
ing, for  all  he  ate  a  day  was  half  a  pound  of 
bread,  or  its  equivalent  in  macaroni,  with  a 
little  piece  of  cheese,  and  on  a  feast  day  a  bit 
of  sausage.  In  those  clothes,  which  were  made 
for  a  fat  man,  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  scare- 
crow with  a  fine,  large  head.  These  "Italians" 
are  the  Chinese  of  the  West.  The  conditions 
of  life  down  there  being  impossible,  they  are 
driven  out  like  locusts  or  the  old  inhabitants 
of  Central  Asia — a  regular  invasion.  In  every 
country  they  have  a  kind  of  Society  which 
helps  them  to  make  a  start.  When  once  pro- 
vided with  organs,  jewellery,  or  whatever  their 
profession,  they  live  on  nothing,  drink  nothing, 
spend  no  money.  Smoke?  Yes,  they  smoke; 
but  you  have  to  give  them  the  tobacco.  Some- 
times they  bring  their  women;  more  often  they 
come  alone — they  make  money  more  quickly 
without.  The  end  they  have  in  view  is  to 
scrape  together  a  treasure  of  two  or  three 

94 


COMPENSATION 

hundred  pounds  and  go  back  to  Italy  rich  men. 
If  you're  accustomed  to  the  Italian  at  home, 
it  will  astonish  you  to  see  how  he  works  when 
he's  out  of  his  own  country,  and  how  provident 
he  is — a  regular  Chinaman.  JfTchuk-Tchuk  was 
alone,  and  he  worked  like  a  slave.  He  was  at 
his  stand,  day  in,  day  out;  if  the  sun  burned, 
if  there  was  a  gale;  he  was  often  wet  through, 
but  no  one  could  pass  without  receiving  a  smile 
from  his  teeth  and  a  hand  stretched  out  with 
some  gimcrack  or  other.^  He  always  tried  to 
impress  the  women,  with  whom  he  did  most  of 
his  business — especially  the  cocotterie.  Ah! 
how  he  looked  at  them  with  his  great  eyes! 
Temperamentally,  I  dare  say,  he  was  vicious 
enough;  but,  as  you  know,  it  costs  mpney  to 
be  vicious,  and  he  spent  no  money.  /His  ex- 
penses were  twopence  a  day  for  food  and  four- 
pence  for  his  bed  in  a  cafe  full  of  other  birds  of 
his  feathers-sixpence  a  day,  three  shillings  and 
sixpence  a  week.  No  other  sort  of  human 
creature  can  keep  this  up  long.  My  minimum 
is  tenpence,  which  is  not  a  bed  of  roses;  but, 
then,  I  can't  do  without  tobacco  (to  a  man  in 
extreme  poverty  a  single  vice  is  indispensable). 

95 


A  MOTLEY 

But  these  "Italians"  do  without  even  that. 
/Tchuk-Tchuk  soldi  not  very  hard  work,  you 
say?  Try  it  for /half  an  hour;  try  and  sell 
something  goodAand  Tchuk-Tchuk's  things 
were  rubbish — flash  coral  jewellery,  Italian 
enamels  made  up  into  pins  and  brooches,  cellu- 
loid gimcracksj  In  the  evenings  I've  often  seen 
him  doze  off  from  sheer  fatigue,  but  always 
with  his  eyes  half-open,  like  a  cat.  His  soul 
was  in  his  stall;  he  watched  everything — but 
only  to  sell  his  precious  goods,  for  nothing  in- 
terested him;  he  despised  all  the  world  around 
him — the  people,  the  sea,  the  amusements; 
they  were  ridiculous  and  foreign.  He  had  his 
stall,  and  he  lived  to  sell.  He  was  like  a  man 
shut  up  in  a  box — with  not  a  pleasure,  not  a 
sympathy,  nothing  wherewith  to  touch  this 
strange  world  in  which  he  found  himself. 

"I'm  of  the  South,"  he  would  say  to  me, 
jerking  his  head  at  the  sea;  "it's  hard  there. 
Over  there  I  got  a  girl.  She  wouldn't  be 
sorry  to  see  me  again;  not  too  sorry!  Over 
there  one  starves;  name  of  a  Saint,"  (he  chose 
this  form  of  oath,  no  doubt,  because  it  sounded 
Christian),  "it's  hard  there!" 

96 


COMPENSATION 

I  am  not  sentimental  about  Tchuk-Tchuk; 
he  was  an  egoist  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  but 
that  did  not  in  the  least  prevent  his  suffering 
for  the  want  of  his  South,  for  the  want  of  his 
sunshine,  and  his  girl — the  greater  the  egoism 
the  greater  the  suffering.  He  craved  like  a 
dumb  animal;  but,  as  he  remarked,  "Over 
there  one  starves!"  Naturally  he  had  not 
waited  for  that.  He  had  his  hopes.  "Wait 
a  bit!"  he  used  to  say.  "Last  year  I  was  in 
Brussels.  Bad  business!  At  the  end  they 
take  away  all  my  money  for  the  Society,  and 
give  me  this  stall.  This  is  all  right — I  make 
some  money  this  season." 

He  had  many  clients  among  "women  of 
morals,"  who  had  an  eye  for  his  beautiful  head 
of  hair,  who  know,  too,  that  life  is  not  all 
roses;  and  there  was  something  pathetic  in  the 
persistency  of  Tchuk-Tchuk  and  the  way  his 
clothes  hung  about  him  like  sacks;  nor  was  he 
bad-looking,  with  his  great  black  eyes  and  his 
slim,  dirty  hands. 

One  wet  day  I  came  on  the  Estacade  when 
hardly  a  soul  was  there.    Tchuk-Tchuk  had 
covered  his  stall  with  a  piece  of  old  tarpaulin. 
He  was  smoking  a  long  cigar. 
97 


A  MOTLEY 

"Aha!  Tchuk-Tchuk,"  I  said,  "smoking?" 

"Yes,"  says  he,  "it's  good!" 

"Why  not  smoke  every  day,  you  miser;   it 

ould  comfort  you  when  you're  hungry." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Costs  money,"  says 
ne.  "This  one  cost  me  nothing.  A  kind  of 
an  individual  gave  it  me — a  red-faced  English- 
man— said  he  couldn't  smoke  it.  He  knew 
nothing,  the  idiot — this  is  good,  I  tell  you!" 

But  it  was  Tchuk-Tchuk  who  knew  nothing 
— he  had  been  too  long  without  the  means  of 
knowledge.  It  was  interesting  to  see  the  way 
he  ate,  drank,  inhaled,  and  soaked  up  that 
rank  cigar — a  true  revel  of  sensuality. 

The  end  of  the  season  came,  and  all  of  us 
birds  who  prey  on  the  visitors  were  getting 
ready  to  fly;  but  I  stayed  on,  because  I  like 
the  place — the  gay-coloured  houses,  the  smell 
of  fish  in  the  port,  the  good  air,  the  long  green 
seas,  the  dunes;  there's  something  of  it  all  in 
my  blood,  and  I'm  always  sorry  to  leave.  But 
after  the  season  is  over — as  Tchuk-Tchuk 
would  say — "Name  of  a  saint — one  starves 
over  there  1" 

*~  One  evening,  at  the  very  end,  when  there 
were  scarcely  twenty  visitors  in  the 
98 


COMPENSATION 

went  as  usual  to  a  certain  cafe,  with  two  com- 
partments, where  every  one  comes  whose  way 
of  living  is  dubious — bullies,  comedians,  off- 
colour  actresses,  women  of  morals,  "Turks," 
"Italians,"  "Greeks" — all  such,  in  fact,  as 
play  the  game  of  stealing — a  regular  rag-shop 
of  cheats  and  gentlemen  of  industryV-very 
interesting  people,  with  whom  I  am  well 
acquainted.  Nearly  every  one  had  gone;  so 
that  evening  there  were  but  few  of  us  in  the 
restaurant,  and  in  the  inner  room  three  Ital-? 
ians  only.  I  passed  into  that. 
/""Presently  in  came  Tchuk-Tchuk,  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  seen  him  in  a  place  where  one 
could  spend  a  little  money.  How  thin  he  was, 
with  his  little  body  and  his  great  head!  One 
would  have  said  he  hadn't  eaten  for  a  week. 
A  week?  A  year!  Down  he  sat,  and  called 
for  a  bottle  of  wine;  and  at  once  he  began  to 
chatter  and  snap  his  fingers. 

"Ha,  ha!"  says  one  of  the  Italians;  "look 
at  Tchuk-Tchuk.  What  a  nightingale  he  has 
become  all  of  a  sudden.  Come,  Tchuk-Tchuk, 
give  us  some  of  your  wine,  seeing  you're  in 


99 


A  MOTLEY 

Tchuk-Tchuk  gave  us  of  his  wine;  and 
ordered  another  bottleJ 

"Ho,  ho!"  says  another  Italian,  "must  have 
buried  his  family,  this  companion !"  We 
drank — Tchuk-Tchuk  faster  than  all.  Do  you 
know  that  sort  of  thirst,  when  you  drink  just 
to  give  you  the  feeling  of  having  blood  in 
the  veins  at  all?  Most  people  in  that  state 
can't  stop — they  drink  themselves  dead  drunk. 
Tchuk-Tchuk  was  not  like  that.  He  was  care- 
ful, as  always,  looking  to  his  future.  Oh!  he 
kept  his  heart  in  hand;  but  in  such  cases  a 
little  goes  a  long  way;  he  became  cheerful — it 
doesn't  take  much  to  make  an  Italian  cheerful 
who  has  been  living  for  months  on  water  and 
half-rations  of  bread  and  macaroni.  It  was 
evident,  too,  that  he  had  reason  to  feel  gay. 
He  sang  and  laughed,  and  the  other  Italians 
sang  and  laughed  with  him.  One  of  them 
said:  "It  seems  our  Tchuk-Tchuk  has  been 
doing  good  business.  jCome,  Tchuk-Tchuk, 
tell  us  what  you  have  made  this  season!" 

But  Tchuk-Tchuk  only  shook  his  head. 

"Eh!"  said  the  Italian,  "the  shy  bird.  It 
ought  to  be  something  good.  As  for  me, 
100 


COMPENSATION 

comrades,  honestly,  five  hundred  francs  is  all 
I've  made — not  a  centime  more — and  the  half 
of  that  goes  to  the  patron." 

And  each  of  them  began  talking  of  his  gains, 
except  Tchuk-Tchuk,  who  showed  his  teeth, 
and  kept  silence. 

"Come,  Tchuk-Tchuk,"  said  one,  "don't 
be  a  bandit — a  little  frankness!*' 

"He  won't  beat  my  sixteen  hundred!" 
said  another. 

"Name  of  a  Saint!"  said  Tchuk-Tchuk 
suddenly,  "what  do  you  say  to  four  thousand?" 

But  we  all  laughed. 

"La,  la!"  said  one,  "he  mocks  us!" 

Tchuk-Tchuk  opened  the  front  of  his  old 
frock-coat. 

"Look!"  he  cried,  and  he  pulled  out  four 
bills — each  for  a  thousand  francs.  How  we 
stared! 

"See,"  said  he,  "what  it  is  to  be  careful — I 
spend  nothing — every  cent  is  here!  Now  I 
go  home — I  get  my  girl;  wish  me  good  jour- 
ney ! "  He  set  to  work  again  to  snap  his  fingersj 

We  stayed  some  time  and  drank  another 
bottle,  Tchuk-Tchuk  paying.  When  we  parted 
101 


A  MOTLEY 

nobody  was  helpless,  only,  as  I  say,  Tchuk- 
Tchuk  on  the  road  to  the  stars,  as  one  is  after 
a  six  months'  fast.  /The  next  morning  I  was 
drinking  a  "'bock"  in  the  same  cafe,  for  there 
was  nothing  else  to-do,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
who  should  come  running  in  but  this  same 
Tchuk-Tchuk!  Ah!  but  he  was  no  longer  on 
the  road  to  the  stars.  He  flung  himself  down 
at  the  table,  with  his  head  between  his  hands, 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"They've  robbed  me,"  he  cried,  "robbed 
me  of  every  sou;  robbed  me  while  I  slept. 
I  had  it  here,  under  my  pillow;  I  slept  on  it; 
it's  gone — every  sou!"  He  beat  his  breast. 

"Come,  Tchuk-Tchuk,"  said  I,  "from  under 
your  pillow?  That's  not  possible!" 

"How  do  I  know?"  he  groaned;  "it's 
gone,  I  tell  you — all  my  money,  all  my  money. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  wine—  All  he  could 
do  was  to  repeat  again  and  again —  "All  my 
money,  all  my  money!" 

"Have  you  been  to  the  police?" 

He  had  been  to  the  police.  I  tried  to  con- 
sole him,  but  without  much  effect,  as  you  may 
imagine.  The  boy  was  beside  himself.  / 

102 


COMPENSATION 

The  police  did  nothing — why  should  they? 
If  he  had  been  a  Rothschild  it  would  have  been 
different,  but  seeing  he  was  only  a  poor  devil 

of  an  Italian  who  had  lost  his  all ! 

/TTchuk-Tchuk  had  sold  his  stall,  his  stock, 

(everything  he  had,  the  day  before,  so  he  had 
not  even  the  money  for  a  ticket  to  Brussels. 
He  was  obliged  to  walk.  He  started — and  to 
this  day  I  see  him  starting,  with  his  little  hard 
hat  on  his  beautiful  black  hair,  and  the  unsewn 
ends  of  his  tie.  His  face  was  like  the  face  of 
the  Devil  thrown  out  of  Eden! 

What  became  of  him  I  cannot  say,  but  I  do 
not  see  too  clearly  in  all  this  the  compensation 
of  which  you  have  been  speaking. 

/     And  Ferrand  was  silent. 

1904. 


103 


JOY  OF  LIFE 

IT  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Berkeley 
Square,  and  I  had  come  out  of  a  drawing- 
room,  warm,  scented  and  full  of  "  portable 
property."  The  hall  door  was  closed  behind 
me,  the  East  wind  caught  me  in  the  face,  and 
I  walked  into  a  child. 

She  may  have  been  five  years  old.  With  a 
scanty  red  petticoat  widespread  over  her 
humped-up  knees,  she  was  sitting  on  the  pave- 
ment and  beating  it  with  a  bit  of  withered 
branch  decorated  with  three  or  four  brown 
leaves.  In  time  to  the  beating  she  chanted  a 
song.  Blackish-brown  curls  hung  all  about  her 
round,  smutty  little  face;  the  remains  of  a  hat 
rested  beside  her  on  the  pavement;  and  two 
reckless,  little  black  devils  looked  out  of  her 
eyes. 

She  was  so  delightful  a  contrast  to  the 
" portable  property"  that  it  was  impossible 
not  to  stare  at  her. 

105 


A  MOTLEY 

So  I  went  down  the  street  crabwise. 

She  knew  I  was  going  crabwise,  she  knew  the 
position  of  the  " bobby"  at  the  corner,  she 
knew  everything  all  round  her.  And  when  she 
saw  me  vanishing  she  began  to  flirt  with  me. 
She  put  her  head  on  one  side  like  a  terrier  ask- 
ing for  cake,  and  looked  up  through  her  tangle 
of  curls.  She  smiled — I  smiled,  and  went  round 
the  corner.  There  was  a  little  patter  of  hob- 
nails, and  she  came  round  the  corner.  If  she 
was  queer  on  the  ground,  she  was  queerer  on 
her  feet;  she  had  clapped  her  hat — the  last 
bit  of  a  large  girl's  hat — on  the  back  of  her 
head;  her  short,  red  petticoat  gaped,  her  bare 
brown  legs  were  thrust  into  a  woman's  boots. 
She  shuffled  along  behind,  beating  the  railings 
with  her  branch.  Sometimes  she  ranged  up 
alongside,  shot  a  shy  glance  at  my  top-hat, 
and  fell  back  again. 

People  passed  and  stared  at  her,  but  she 
paid  no  attention. 

In  Oxford  Street  we  stopped  and  held  a 
conversation.  It  began  and  ended  thus: 

" Would  you  like  some  sweets?"  I  left  her 
sucking  a  sixpence,  staring  after  me  with  her 
106 


JOY  OF  LIFE 

great  black  eyes,  and  beating  a  shop  window 
with  her  branch. 

But  when  I  looked  round  again  she  was  danc- 
ing to  a  barrel-organ  with  some  other  children, 
her  petticoat  a  little  red  teetotum  in  the 
crowded  street. 

1899. 


107 


BEL  COLORE 

ON  one  side  of  the  road,  a  grove  of  olives; 
on  the  other  a  rose-hung  villa,  maize- 
coloured,  with  faded  shutters,  and  a  vanished 
name  on  the  gate.  In  front,  a  tall  palm  lurch- 
ing unpruned  out  of  tangled  shrubs;  at  the 
side,  a  crimson  garment  on  a  line.  The  dtsha- 
bitte  of  an  eternal  siesta! 

Overhead  the  sky  sapphire,  with  a  western 
blaze  of  gold;  the  breeze  rustling  in  the  palm 
leaves;  a  goat's  bell  tinkling,  a  scent  of  burn- 
ing wood,  the  croaking  of  frogs. 

In  a  tarnished  cage,  at  a  second  story  win- 
dow, a  parrot,  with  a  yellow  head,  nasally 
chanting:  "Niculi  ni-co-la!" 

Three  children  pass,  and  lift  their  faces. 
The  sun  throws  a  glow  under  their  hats.  They 
call:  "Scratch-a-Poll,  poll!"  The  eldest,  a 
fair-haired  English  boy,  lingers,  and  as  he 
looks,  a  young  girl  with  cheeks  like  poppies 
and  eyes  like  jet,  with  a  short  red  dress  and 
109 


A  MOTLEY 

bushy  black-brown  hair,  comes  out,  and  stands 
in  the  doorway.  He  wavers,  snatches  at  his 
hat,  blushes  and  stands  still.  She  walks  off, 
swinging  in  her  rounded  hand  a  little  strap- 
full  of  books.  She  turns  her  head  for  just  a 
second.  Her  voice  rings  out  clear;  repeating 
what  she  has  heard,  like  her  own  parrot: 

"Go  to  bed  im-me-diate-lee  you  naugh-tee 
lee-tie  bambino";  and  laughing  a  mocking 
little  laugh. 

The  boy  hangs  his  head,  clutches  his  hat, 
breaks  into  a  run.  The  little  girl  moves  sun- 
wards, swaying  her  hips  demurely  like  a  grown 
woman.  She  looks  with  half-closed  eyes 
straight  at  the  road  in  front  of  her;  and  slowly 
her  grave  little  figure, — symbol  of  the  South's 
languor,  cruelty,  and  love, — fades  to  a  crimson 
stain  on  the  line  of  the  dusty  road. 

1899. 


110 


A  PILGRIMAGE 

1SAW  them  from  the  top  of  a  Hammersmith 
'bus,  sitting  on  the  smart  white  door- 
step of  a  house  opposite  the  Albert  Memorial. 
It  was  a  very  hot,  bright  day;  the  cabs  and 
carriages  of  the  fashionable  were  streaming  by, 
and  people  loitered  in  the  sunshine,  while  these 
three  small  pilgrims  sat  on  that  doorstep. 

The  biggest,  a  boy  of  six,  held  on  his  slippery 
lap  a  baby  with  a  huge  head  and  an  aspect  of 
measles,  whose  fist,  like  a  lump  of  paste,  was 
thrust  into  its  cheek,  whose  eyes  were  screwed 
up,  whose  feet  emerged  limply  from  the  bundle 
of  its  body.  And  now  and  then  the  boy  heaved 
it  up,  and  looked  into  its  face. 

A  girl,  younger  than  the  boy,  with  a  fair, 
patient,  dirty  little  face,  and  large  circles 
round  her  eyes,  in  a  short  loose  frock  of  faded 
blue,  which  showed  her  little  bare  knees, 
leaned  against  the  doorpost;  she  had  no  hat, 
and  was  fast  asleep.  The  boy  himself  stared 
111 


A  MOTLEY 

before  him  with  big  brown  eyes.  His  hair  was 
dark  and  his  ears  projected;  his  clothes  were 
decent,  but  dusty  from  head  to  foot.  His 
eyes  were  those  of  people  who  get  through  the 
day  somehow,  and  are  very  tired  at  the  end. 
I  spoke  to  him. 

"Is  that  your  sister?" 

"No." 

"What  then?" 

"A  friend!" 

"And  that?" 

"My  brother." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Regent's  Pawk." 

"How  did  you  get  as  far  as  this?" 

"Came  to  see  Albert  Memorial." 

"Are  you  very  tired?" 

No  answer. 

"Here's  a  shilling;  now  you  can  go  home  in. 
a  'bus." 

No  answer,  no  smile;    but  a  grubby  hand 
closing  over  the  shilling. 

"Do  you  know  how  much  that  is?" 

His  face  twinkled  with  contempt;  he  heaved 
his  brother  slowly. 

112 


A  PILGRIMAGE 

"  Twelve  pennies. " 

Glancing  back  I  saw  him  holding  his  brother 
very  tight,  and  stirring  up  his  " friend"  with 
his  boot  to  look  at  the  shilling. 

1900. 


113 


THE  KINGS 

LONDON  sun  has  robbed  the  leaves  of 
freshness.  No  watercart  passes.  My 
dog  pants  with  the  heat,  his  tongue  lolling 
from  his  dripping  mouth.  No  traffic  in  this 
quiet  backwater,  with  its  steep  ascent,  its 
studios,  its  stables,  its  trees. 

In  the  road,  before  a  high  house,  stands  a 
flushed  and  ragged  woman  clutching  some 
sprigs  of  lavender,  and  on  the  curbstone  sits 
another.  Out  of  her  dirty  rag  of  shawl  peeps 
the  weazened  little  face  of  a  baby,  sucking  at 
the  twisted,  ragged  rubber  of  an  unclean  empty 
bottle.  This  baby  is  staring  out  at  the  world 
— so  vast,  so  full  of  heat  and  dust  and  hunger — 
with  eyes  that  seem  full  of  knowledge.  This 
baby  has  found  out  all  there  is  to  know.  Its 
eyes  are  patient,  close  to  the  lean  breast  of  her 
whose  eyes  also  are  patient. 

"My  sister — poor  thing — an'  her  little  byby. 
'Er  'usband's  left  her.  We've  walked  from 
115 


A  MOTLEY 

Brighton,  so  'elp  me!  Gawd  love  you,  sir, 
buy  a  sprig  o'  lavender!" 

Two  feet  from  the  street  dust  and  dirt,  the 
mother  and  the  baby  look  up. 

"Gawd  love  you,  sir,  buy  a  sprig  o*  laven- 
der!" 

Of  lavender!  .  .  . 

In  the  hall  of  the  high  house  the  sun  dances 
through  the  chinks  of  the  blinds;  in  that 
dancing,  shadowy  light,  people  glide,  and 
whisper,  and  smile. 

Upstairs,  where  everything  is  cool,  a  new 
mother  lies  in  her  white  bed.  By  her  feet  the 
nurse  stands,  with  the  new  baby  in  her  arms, 
fat,  sleek,  cowled  like  a  bishop;  round  him  are 
faces,  awed  and  delighted,  wondering  at  this 
snug  atom  in  its  speckless  wool  and  dimity. 

A  sound;  all  tremble! 

The  clock  ticks,  the  nurse's  shoes  patter, 
the  hum  of  worship  rises.  With  the  evening 
drifts  in  the  scent  of  limes;  and  on  the  pillows 
of  her  white  bed  the  mother  is  smiling. 

King  out  there  in  the  heat — King  in  here  in 
the  cool — You  have  come  into  your  Kingdoms! 

1904. 

116 


APOTHEOSIS 

"  AH!  now  that's  good!"  said  the  bald 
2\  man  in  the  stalls,  and  the  misanthropic 
man  beside  him  hiccoughed. 

"Ha,  ha!"  roared  the  stout  man  with  the 
eyeglass. 

"I  say!11  remarked  the  fourth  man  naively. 

On  the  stage  of  the  "Paradise,"  an  elephant 
had  been  turned  on  its  back  and  enclosed  in  a 
plush  frame. 

"Look  at  his  eye!"  laughed  the  bald  man: 
"Ha,  ha!" 

All  four  looked.  The  inverted  elephant's 
tiny  eye — the  only  moving  thing  in  that  grey 
mass — travelled  in  a  quest  among  the  audience, 
then  fixed  a  stoic  gleam  on  his  forelegs  raised 
in  the  air  like  pillars.  A  world  to  itself,  that 
eye — a  little  wild  world  apart — in  all  this 
theatre,  domed  with  gold,  starred  with  lamps, 
thronged  with  faces  turned  all  in  one  direction. 

"Ha,  ha!  Look  at  his  eye!"  The  ele- 
117 


A  MOTLEY 

phant's  eye  had  travelled  round  again,  and  the 
naive  man  murmured: 

"I  say,  it's  awfully  funny!" 

"Most  intelligent  animals!"  the  stout  man 
said,  adjusting  his  eyeglass. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  asked  the  naive  man, 
"that  it's  done  by  kindness?" 

The  bald  man  squeezed  his  opera  hat. 

"Impossible  to  tell!"  he  said.  "Look  at 
the  beggar's  trunk!" 

The  elephant,  tired  of  hanging  his  trunk 
towards  the  audience,  had  curled  it  on  his 
chest. 

"Like  a  bloated  caterpillar!"  murmured 
the  misanthropic  man. 

Two  anxious-looking  Persian  cats,  and  two 
red-breasted    parrots    with    thin    gilt    chains* 
fastened  to  their  legs  appeared  from  different 
quarters,  and  perched  one  on  each  foot  of  the 
inverted  elephant. 

"Pretty  smart  that!"  the  bald  man  said. 

After  one  furtive  moment,  the  cats  and  par- 
rots had  begun  to  leap  from  foot  to  foot;  the 
upturned  elephant  rolled  his  little  eye,  and 
writhed  his  trunk. 

118 


APOTHEOSIS 

"Now,  I  call  that  wonderful!"  the  bald 
man  cried;  "so  intelligent!" 

"I  knew  a  cat  once,"  complained  the  mis- 
anthropic man,  "as  intelligent  as  a  human 
bein'!" 

"Come,  come!"  said  the  stout  man. 

"What  price  that!"  the  bald  man  eagerly 
interrupted. 

The  elephant  had  raised  his  trunk  with  a 
parrot  on  its  tip,  and  slowly  held  it  out  to  the 
audience. 

"Not  bad!"  the  stout  man  cried.    "Ha,  ha!" 

"Any  cats  almost,"  insisted  the  misanthrope, 
"are  as  intelligent  as  human  bein's!" 

"What!"  the  stout  man  said,  "d'you  tell 
me  a  lot  of  cats  would  appreciate  a  thing  like 
this — d'you  tell  me  a  lot  of  cats  would  see 
anything  funny  in  that  elephant?" 

The  bald  man  broke  in:  "I  admire  the 
training;  shows  what  can  be  done  with  deter- 
mination— wants  a  strong  will  to  get  cats  and 
parrots  to  work  together." 

"Yes,  by  Jove!"  the  stout  man  said.  "I 
like  a  good  animal  show.  I'm  fond  of  animals 
myself.  Some  people  don't  seem  to  care  a 
119 


A  MOTLEY 

kick  about  'em.    Funny-looking  beast  on  his 
back — an  elephant!" 

"Do  you  think  he  likes  it?"  mused  the 
naive  man. 

The  cats  and  parrots  had  vanished  now,  and 
a  single  little  kitten,  faintly  mewing,  came 
and  curled  itself  up  in  the  great  beast's  mouth. 

"I  say!"  the  misanthrope  remarked  with 
sudden  interest,  "how  jolly  natural!  What  a 
little  ripper,  eh?"  and  he  too  applauded. 

The  elephant's  tiny  eye  seemed  to  inquire 
the  meaning  of  that  cheer. 

"So  much  for  the  intelligence  of  cats!" 
the  stout  man  said.  "Where'd  you  have  got 
your  baby  to  go  fooling  round  in  an  elephant's 
mouth?" 

"That  proves  nothing,"  the  misanthrope 
replied;  "all  I  meant  about  cats  was,  that 
people  are  fools,  mostly!" 

The  showman  now  removed  the  kitten,  and 
standing  on  the  elephant's  chest,  blew  kisses 
to  the  audience.  Then,  summoning  the  trunk 
to  him,  he  placed  a  lighted  cigarette  in  its  tip. 

"Bravo!"  the  bald  man  cried;  "now  that's 
what  I  call  really  clever!    Bravo!" 
120 


APOTHEOSIS 

"I  tell  you  what,"  the  stout  man  said: 
"I've  been  watching  him — and  he  don't  like  it." 

"Don't  like  what?"  the  misanthrope  en- 
quired. 

"Very  few  animals  can  stand  smoke,"  the 
stout  man  said.  "I  had  a  pony  once,  though, 
that  would  snuff  it  up  like  fun." 

The  elephant  replaced  the  cigarette  between 
the  showman's  lips;  a  shiver  ran  through  his 
huge  frame. 

"Look  at  his  eye  now!"  the  bald  man  said. 
"It's  really  damn  funny,  isn't  it?" 

"Well!"  yawned  the  misanthrope.  "I've 
had  about  enough  of  this  footy  elephant!" 

And  as  if  in  accordance  with  that  sentiment, 
the  showman  began  a  little  hastily  unloosening 
the  bands  of  the  plush  frame;  and  suddenly 
the  creature  trumpeted. 

"He's  asking  to  be  let  up,"  the  stout  man 
wheezed;  "I  don't  care  what  you  say,  I  call 
it  doosid  good.  It's  all  so  natural.  Some 
fellows,"  he  added  in  an  irritated  voice,  "don't 
care  a  curse  for  animals!" 

"Looks  to  me  as  if  he'd  turned  sulky,"  the 
bald  man  said.    "See  his  eye  now!" 
121 


A  MOTLEY 

"Yes!"  the  stout  man  answered,  "that's 
where  animals  will  fail;  they've  got  no  sense 
of  humour.  See  that  elephant's  eye;  for  all 
it's  deuced  clever,  it's  got  no  sense  of  humour!" 

And  that  little  eye — that  round  wild  little 
world  apart,  with  its  quick,  mournful  roll, 
seemed  answering,  "Alas!  no  sense  of  hu- 
mour!" 

"I  can't  help  wondering  whether  they  like 
it,"  the  naive  man  murmured,  as  though  loth 
to  harbour  doubts  about  a  sight  he  had  so 
much  enjoyed. 

"Like  it?  Of  course  they  like  it!  They're 
most  intelligent!"  said  the  stout  man,  drop- 
ping his  eyeglass,  as  the  curtain  fell.  "A 
show  of  this  sort  is  what  I  call  the  apoth — 
apotheosis  of  intelligence.  It's  not  every  one 
can  appreciate  it,  or  every  animal  can  stand  it. 
There's  pigs  now,"  he  added,  staring  absently 
around  him  with  his  eyeglass,  "and  donkeys — ! 
What  price  them!" 

1903. 


122 


THE  WORKERS 

THE  little,  squat,  dark  houses  with  snow- 
sprinkled  roofs,  having  windows  like 
the  blurred  eyes  of  old  people,  ran  curving 
away  from  the  thoroughfare.  Built  so  long 
ago  that  they  seemed  as  the  ghosts  of  departed 
dwellings,  they  harboured  countless  workers, 
who  could  be  seen  plying  their  needles  by  the 
afternoon  light,  gleaming  yellowish  under  a 
snow-laden  sky.  Indeed,  in  some  windows 
tallow  candles  were  already  burning. 

Unlike  the  doors  of  the  shiftless,  these  street 
doors,  to  which  clung  the  memory  of  paint, 
were  religiously  closed,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  tap  before  one  could  enter.  The  woman 
who  opened  the  last  of  those  doors  was  about 
fifty-five  years  of  age,  and  dressed  in  very 
crumpled  clothes  as  of  one  always  sitting  down, 
with  a  face  dissected  by  deep  furrows  so  that 
no  two  features  seemed  to  belong  to  one  an- 
other. She  held  in  one  hand  a  threaded  needle, 
123 


A  MOTLEY 

in  the  other  a  pair  of  trousers,  to  which  she 
had  been  adding  the  accessories  demanded 
by  our  civilisation.  One  had  never  seen  her 
without  a  pair  of  trousers  in  her  hand,  because 
she  could  only  manage  to  supply  them  with 
decency  at  the  rate  of  seven  or  eight  pairs  a 
day,  working  twelve  hours.  For  each  pair  she 
received  seven  farthings,  and  used  nearly  one 
farthing's  worth  of  cotton;  and  this  gave  her 
an  income,  in  good  times,  of  six  to  seven 
shillings  a  week.  But  some  weeks  there  were 
no  trousers  to  be  had,  and  then  it  was  neces- 
sary to  live  on  the  memory  of  those  which  had 
been,  together  with  a  little  sum  put  by  from 
weeks  when  trousers  were  more  plentiful.  De- 
ducting two  shillings  and  threepence  for  rent  of 
the  little  back  room,  there  was  therefore,  on  an 
average,  about  two  shillings  and  ninepence 
left  for  the  sustenance  of  herself  and  husband, 
who  was  fortunately  a  cripple,  and  somewhat 
indifferent  whether  he  ate  or  not.  And  look- 
ing at  her  face,  so  furrowed,  and  at  her  figure, 
of  which  there  was  not  much,  one  could  well 
understand  that  she,  too,  had  long  established 
within  her  such  internal  economy  as  was  suit- 
124 


THE  WORKERS 

able  to  one  who  had  been  "in  trousers"  twenty- 
seven  years,  and,  since  her  husband's  accident 
fifteen  years  before,  in  trousers  only,  finding 
her  own  cotton. 

Her  face  was  long  and  narrow,  her  eyes  grey, 
and  they  looked  at  one  as  though  they  knew 
she  ought  to  ask  whether  anything  could  be 
done  for  her,  and  knew,  too,  that  she  would 
not. 

She  spoke,  indeed,  very  little  except  about 
her  trousers.  Oh!  they  were  so  common!  so 
paltry,  no  quality  at  all !  And  lately  they  had 
been  giving  her  boys'  knickerbockers.  She 
had  "no  patience"  with  them,  which  took 
every  bit  as  much  cotton,  and  brought  you 
less  money.  In  old  days  it  had  been  a  better 
class  of  trouser  altogether,  but  now  there 
seemed  no  heart  in  them — no  heart  at  all! 
And  they  were  so  irregular!  But  you  couldn't 
blame  the  woman  who  had  them  of  the  tailors, 
and  gave  them  out — she  let  you  have  as  many 
as  she  could,  and  only  got  a  farthing  a  pair  for 
herself.  So  there  it  was! 

A  bed  which  had  neither  legs,  nor  clothes 
that  could  be  recognised  as  clothes,  took  up 
125 


A  MOTLEY 

the  greater  part  of  the  little  room,  which  was 
fuller  of  rags,  charred  pans,  chipped  crockery, 
and  trousers,  than  any  room  of  its  size  ever 
seen.  On  this  bed  a  black  cat  with  a  white  nose 
was  sleeping.  Bits  of  broken  wooden  boxes 
were  heaped  up,  waiting  to  feed  the  small  fire. 
And  on  the  wall  by  the  side  of  this  fire  hung 
the  ghost  of  a  toasting  fork.  Very  lonely  and 
thin  was  that  wispy  piece  of  iron,  as  though 
for  many  days  it  had  lacked  bread.  Hooked 
to  the  wall,  with  its  prongs  turned  upwards, 
it  was  like  the  black  shrivelled  husk  of  an  arm 
and  hand,  asking  for  more  with  its  spidery 
fingers. 

Its  owners  were  seated  with  their  backs  to 
it;  she  just  under  the  tightly-closed  window, 
so  as  to  use  as  long  as  possible  a  kind  of  light 
for  which  she  had  not  to  pay;  and  her  husband 
with  his  crippled  leg  almost  in  the  fire.  He 
was  a  man  with  a  round,  white  face,  a  little  grey 
moustache  curving  down  like  a  parrot's  beak, 
and  round  whitish  eyes.  In  his  aged  and 
unbuttoned  suit  of  grey,  with  his  head  held 
rather  to  one  side,  he  looked  like  a  parrot — a 
bird  clinging  to  its  perch,  with  one  grey  leg 
126 


THE  WORKERS 

shortened  and  crumpled  against  the  other. 
He  talked,  too,  in  a  toneless,  equable  voice, 
looking  sideways  at  the  fire,  above  the  rims  of 
dim  spectacles,  and  now  and  then  smiling 
with  a  peculiar  disenchanted  patience. 

No — he  said — it  was  no  use  to  complain; 
did  no  good!  Things  had  been  like  this  for 
years,  and  so,  he  had  no  doubt,  they  always 
would  be.  There  had  never  been  much  in 
trousers;  not  this  common  sort  that  anybody 'd 
wear,  as  you  might  say.  Though  he'd  never 
seen  anybody  wearing  such  things;  and  where 
they  went  to  he  didn't  know — out  of  England, 
he  should  think.  Yes,  he  had  been  a  carman; 
run  over  by  a  dray.  Oh!  yes,  they  had  given 
him  something — four  bob  a  week;  but  the 
old  man  had  died  and  the  four  bob  had  died 
too.  Still,  there  he  was,  sixty  years  old — not 
so  very  bad  for  his  age.  She  couldn't  get 
through  half  the  work  but  for  him  holding  the 
things  for  her,  and  pressing  them,  and  one 
thing  and  another — not  up  to  much,  of  course 
— but  he  could  do  all  that! 

With  those  words  he  raised  his  right  hand, 
which  clasped  a  pair  of  linings,  and  there 
127 


A  MOTLEY 

passed  between  his  whitish  eyes  and  the  grey 
eyes  of  his  wife  one  of  those  looks  which  people 
who  have  long  lived  together  give  each  other. 
It  had  no  obvious  gleam  of  affection,  but  just 
the  matter-of-fact  mutual  faith  of  two  creatures 
who  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  can  never 
be  out  of  arm's  length  of  one  another.  For,  as 
he  said,  they  were  not  much  of  goers-out, 
though  he  did  get  out  once  in  a  way  when  the 
weather  was  fine,  and  she  had  to  go  out  to 
get  her  work  and  come  back  again.  His  eyes, 
travelling  round  the  chaotic,  grimy  little  room, 
which  was  as  much  the  whole  world  to  them  as 
ever  was  his  cell  to  a  prisoner,  rested  on  the 
cat,  coiled  up  on  the  ragged  bedclothes.  Oh, 
yes!  The  cat.  There  she  was,  always  asleep. 
She  was  a  bit  of  company.  They  didn't  see 
much  company;  kept  themselves  to  them- 
selves. Low  neighbourhood — people  very  fun- 
ny! Yes,  there  was  nice  enough  buildings 
round  the  corner.  But  you  had  to  be  in  a  good 
position  to  live  in  them.  Seven-and-six  a 
week — and  pay  it  sharp.  Not  but  what  they 
weren't  sharp  after  their  rent  here!  Just  a 
working  man — their  landlord — who'd  got  to 
128 


THE  WORKERS 

pay  his  rent  himself,  so  what  could  you  expect? 
A  little  spurt  of  work  just  now,  of  course,  ow- 
ing to  Christmas.  Soon  drop  down  again  to 
nothing  afterwards — oh,  yes! 

Smiling  his  strange  smile,  as  of  a  man  almost 
amused  at  what  Fate  had  devised  for  him,  he 
reached  down  and  fed  the  fire  with  a  piece  of 
broken  box;  then  resumed  his  upright  posture, 
with  his  head  bent  a  little  to  one  side  so  that  it 
favoured  his  withered  leg.  They  were  talking, 
he  had  heard  said,  about  doing  something  for 
trousers.  But  what  could  you  do  for  things  like 
these,  at  half-a-crown  a  pair?  People  must 
have  'em,  so  you'd  got  to  make  'em.  There 
you  were,  and  there  you  would  be!  She  went 
and  heard  them  talk.  They  talked  very  well, 
she  said.  It  was  intellectual  for  her  to  go. 
He  couldn't  go  himself,  owing  to  his  leg.  He'd 
like  to  hear  them  talk.  Oh,  yes!  And  he  was 
silent,  staring  sideways  at  the  fire,  as  though 
in  the  thin  crackle  of  the  flames  attacking  the 
fresh  piece  of  wood,  he  were  hearing  the  echo 
of  that  talk  from  which  he  was  cut  off.  "Lor 
bless  you!"  he  said  suddenly,  "they'll  do  noth- 
ing! Can't!"  And,  stretching  out  his  dirty 
129 


A  MOTLEY 

hand  he  took  from  his  wife's  lap  a  pair  of 
trousers,  and  held  it  up.  "Look  at  'em!  Why, 
you  can  see  right  through  'em,  linings  and  all. 
Who's  goin'  to  pay  more  than  'alf-a-crown  for 
that?  Where  they  go  to  I  can't  think.  Who 
wears  'em?  Some  Institution  I  should  say. 
They  talk,  but  dear  me,  they'll  never  do  any- 
thing so  long  as  there's  thousands,  like  us, 
glad  to  work  for  what  we  can  get.  Best  not 
to  think  about  it,  I  say." 

And  laying  the  trousers  back  on  his  wife's 
lap,  he  resumed  his  sidelong  stare  into  the  fire. 

The  snow-laden  sky  seemed  to  have  drawn 
nearer,  so  little  light  was  there  in  the  room; 
and  there  was  no  sound,  as  though  the  last 
word  had  been  spoken,  and  the  fire  exhausted. 
In  that  motionless  and  soundless  twilight  the 
toasting  fork  on  the  wall  alone  seemed  to  be 
alive,  with  its  thin,  tortured  prongs  asking  for 
that  for  which  those  two  had  never  asked. 

1909. 


130 


A  MILLER  OF  DEE 

MACCREEDY  was  respectable,  but  an 
outcast  in  his  village. 

There  was  nothing  against  him;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  held  the  post  of  ferry-man  to  the  peo- 
ple of  the  Manor,  and  nightly  explained  in  the 
bar-parlour  that  if  he  had  not  looked  sharp 
after  his  rights  he  would  have  been  a  salaried 
servant:  "At  a  fixed  wage,  ye'll  understand, 
without  a  chance  to  turn  an  honest  penny." 

He  turned  the  honest  pennies  by  exacting 
sixpenny  ferry  tolls  from  every  person  who 
was  not  a  member  of  the  Manor  family.  His 
doctrine,  preached  nightly,  was  that  the  gentry 
were  banded  to  destroy  the  rights  of  the  poor; 
yet,  in  spite  of  this,  which  should  have  con- 
ferred on  him  popularity,  he  was  subtly  and 
mysteriously  felt  to  be  a  spiritual  alien.  No 
one  ever  heard  him  object  to  this  unwritten, 
unspoken  verdict;  no  one  knew,  in  fact, 
whether  he  was  aware  of  it.  On  still  evenings 
131 


A  MOTLEY 

he  could  be  seen  sitting  in  his  boat  in  the 
Manor  pool,  under  the  high-wooded  cliff,  as  if 
brooding  over  secret  wrongs.  He  was  a  singer, 
too,  with  a  single  song,  "The  Miller  of  Dee/7 
which  he  gave  on  all  occasions;  the  effort  of 
producing  it  lent  his  mouth  a  ludicrous  twist 
under  his  whitey-brown  moustache.  People  on 
the  Manor  terrace  above  could  hear  him  sing 
it  at  night  in  an  extraordinarily  flat  voice,  as 
he  crossed  the  river  back  to  his  cottage  below. 

No  one  knew  quite  where  he  came  from, 
though  some  mentioned  Ireland;  others  held 
a  Scotch  theory;  and  one  man,  who  had  an 
imagination,  believed  him  to  be  of  Icelandic 
origin.  This  mystery  rankled  in  the  breast  of 
the  village — the  village  of  white  cottages,  with 
its  soft,  perpetual  crown  of  smoke,  and  its  hard 
north-country  tongue.  MacCreedy  was  close 
about  money,  too — no  one  knew  whether  he 
had  much  money  or  little. 

Early  one  spring  he  petitioned  for  a  holiday, 
and  disappeared  for  a '  month.  He  returned 
with  a  wife,  a  young  anaemic  girl,  speaking  in 
a  Southern  accent.  A  rather  interesting  creat- 
ure, this  wife  of  MacCreedy,  very  silent,  and 
132 


A  MILLER  OF  DEE 

with  a  manner  that  was  unconsciously,  and,  as 
it  were,  ironically  submissive. 

On  May  mornings  her  slender  figure,  which 
looked  as  if  it  might  suddenly  snap  off  at  the 
waist,  might  be  seen  in  the  garden,  hanging 
clothes  out  to  dry,  or  stooping  above  the 
vegetables;  while  MacCreedy  watched  her  in 
a  possessive  manner  from  the  cottage  door- 
way. Perhaps  she  symbolised  victory  to  him, 
a  victory  over  his  loneliness;  perhaps  he  only 
looked  on  her  as  more  money  in  his  stocking. 
She  made  no  friends,  for  she  was  MacCreedy's 
wife,  and  a  Southerner;  moreover,  MacCreedy 
did  not  want  her  to  make  friends.  When  he 
was  out  it  was  she  who  would  pull  the  ferry- 
boat over,  and,  after  landing  the  passengers, 
remain  motionless,  bowed  over  her  sculls, 
staring  after  them,  as  though  loth  to  lose  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps;  then  she  would  pull 
slowly  back  across  the  swirl  of  silver-brown 
water,  and,  tying  up  the  boat,  stand  with  her 
hand  shading  her  eyes.  MacCreedy  still  went 
to  the  "public"  at  nights,  but  he  never  spoke 
of  his  wife,  and  it  was  noticed  that  he  stared 
hard  with  his  pug's  eyes  at  any  one  who  asked 
133 


A  MOTLEY 

after  her.  It  was  as  though  he  suspected  the 
village  of  wanting  to  take  her  from  him.  The 
same  instinct  that  made  him  bury  his  money 
in  a  stocking  bid  him  bury  his  wife.  Nobody 
gave  him  anything,  none  should  touch  his 
property! 

Summer  ripened,  flushed  full,  and  passed; 
the  fall  began.  The  river  came  down  ruddy 
with  leaves,  and  often  in  the  autumn  damp 
the  village  was  lost  in  its  soft  mist  of  smoke. 
MacCreedy  became  less  and  less  garrulous,  he 
came  to  the  " public"  seldom,  and  in  the 
middle  of  his  drink  would  put  his  glass  down, 
and  leave,  as  though  he  had  forgotten  some- 
thing. People  said  that  Mrs.  MacCreedy  looked 
unhappy;  she  ceased  to  attend  church  on 
Sundays.  MacCreedy  himself  had  never  at- 
tended. 

One  day  it  was  announced  in  the  village  that 
Mrs.  MacCreedy's  mother  was  ill — that  Mrs. 
MacCreedy  had  gone  away  to  nurse  her;  and, 
in  fact,  her  figure  was  no  more  seen  about  the 
cottage  garden  beneath  the  cliff.  It  became 
usual  to  ask  MacCreedy  about  his  mother-in- 
law,  for  the  question  seemed  to  annoy  him. 
134 


A  MILLER  OF  DEE 

He  would  turn  his  head,  give  a  vicious  tug  at 
the  sculls,  and  answer,  "Oh!  aye,  a  wee  bit 
better!" 

Tired  perhaps  of  answering  this  question, 
he  gave  up  going  to  the  "  public "  altogether, 
and  every  evening,  when  the  shadows  of  the 
woods  were  closing  thick  on  the  water,  he 
could  be  seen  staring  over  the  side  of  his  boat 
moored  in  the  deep  backwater  below  his  cot- 
tage; the  sound  of  his  favourite  song  was  heard 
no  more.  People  said:  "He  misses  his  wife!" 
and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  amongst 
them,  a  feeling  for  him  almost  amounting  to 
warmth  grew  up  in  the  village. 

Early  one  morning,  however,  the  under- 
keeper,  who  had  an  old-time  grudge  against 
MacCreedy,  after  an  hour  of  patient  toil, 
fished  Mrs.  MacCreedy  up  from  the  bottom  of 
the  backwater.  She  was  neatly  sewn  in  a  sack, 
weighted  with  stones,  and  her  face  was  black. 
They  charged  MacCreedy,  who  wept,  and  said 
nothing.  He  was  removed  to  the  County  gaol. 

At  his  trial  he  remained  dumb,  and  was 
found  guilty.  It  was  proved  among  other 
things  that  Mrs.  MacCreedy  had  no  mother. 
135 


A  MOTLEY 

While  he  was  waiting  to  be  hanged,  he  asked 
for  the  chaplain,  and  made  the  following  state- 
ment:— 

" Parson/'  said  he,  "I'm  not  caring  what 
ye  have  to  say — ye  will  get  plenty  of  chance  to 
talk  when  I'm  gone.  It's  not  to  you  I'm 
speaking,  nor  to  anybody  in  particular — I'm 
just  lonely  here;  it's  a  luxury  to  me  to  see  a 
face  that's  not  that  gravy-eyed  old  warder's. 
I  don't  believe  ye're  any  better  than  me,  but 
if  I  did,  what  then?  It's  meself  I've  got  to 
make  me  peace  with.  Man,  d'ye  think  I'd 
have  kept  me  independence  if  I'd  ha'  believed 
the  likes  of  ye?  They  never  had  a  good  word 
for  me  down  there,  gentry  as  bad  as  the  rest — 
the  pack  of  fools!  And  why  didn't  they  have 
a  good  word  for  me?  Just  because  I'm  an 
independent  man.  They'll  tell  ye  that  I  was 
close;  stingy  they'll  call  it — and  why  was  I 
close?  Because  I  knew  they  were  all  against 
me.  Why  should  I  give  'em  anything?  They 
were  all  waitin'  to  take  it  from  me!  They'll 
say  I  set  no  store  by  my  wife;  but  that's  a 
lie,  parson — why,  she  was  all  I  had!  As  sure 
as  I'm  speaking  to  ye,  if  I  hadn't  done  what 
136 


A  MILLER  OF  DEE 

I  did  I'd  have  lost  her.  I  was  for  guessing  it 
all  the  autumn.  I'm  not  one  of  those  bodies 
that  won't  look  a  thing  in  the  face;  ye  can't 
hoodwink  me  with  palaver.  I  put  it  to  ye,  if 
ye  had  a  diamond,  wouldn't  ye  a  sight  sooner 
pitch  it  into  the  sea,  than  have  it  stolen?  Ye 
know  ye  would!  Well,  she's  just  dead;  and 
so'll  I  be  when  they  squeeze  the  life  out  of 
me.  Parson,  don't  ye  go  and  blabber  about 
her  doin'  wrong.  She  never  did  wrong;  hadn't 
the  time  to.  I  wouldn't  have  ye  take  away 
her  reputation  when  I'm  gone  and  can't  defend 
her.  But  there  was,  aye!  the  certainty  that 
she  would  'a  done  it;  'twas  coming,  d'ye 
see?  Aye!  but  I  was  bound  to  lose  her;  and 
I'll  tell  ye  how  I  made  sure. 

"  'Twas  one  day  nigh  the  end  of  October; 
I  emptied  the  ferry  till,  and  I  said  to  my  wife: 
'Jenny,'  I  said,  'ye'll  do  the  ferry  work  to-day; 
I'm  away  to  the  town  for  a  suit  o'  clothes. 
Ye  will  take  care,'  I  said,  'that  no  one  sneaks 
over  without  paying  ye  his  proper  saxpence.' 

"  'Very  well,  MacCreedy,'  she  says.  With 
that  I  put  some  bread  and  meat  in  a  bit  of 
paper,  and  had  her  ferry  me  across.  Well,  I 
137 


A  MOTLEY 

went  away  up  the  road  till  I  thought  she  would 
have  got  back;  and  then  I  turned  round  and 
came  softly  down  again  to  the  watter;  but 
there  she  was,  still  sitting  where  I'd  left  her. 
I  was  put  aback  by  that,  parson;  ye  know 
what  it  is  when  your  plans  get  upset.  '  Jenny/ 
I  said  to  her,  as  if  I  came  for  the  very  purpose, 
'ye'll  look  sharp  after  them  fares?' 

"  'Yes/  she  says,  'MacCreedy.'  And  with 
that  she  turns  the  boat  round.  Well,  presently 
I  came  down  again,  and  hid  in  some  bushes  on 
the  bank,  and  all  day  I  stayed  there  watching. 
Have  ye  ever  watched  a  rabbit  trap?  She 
put  four  people  across  the  river,  and  every 
time  I  saw  them  pay  her.  But  late  in  the 
afternoon  that  man — the  devil  himself,  the 
same  I  was  lookin'  after — came  down  and 
called  out  'Ferry!'  My  wife  she  brought  the 
ferry  over,  and  I  watched  her  close  when  he 
stepped  in.  I  saw  them  talking  in  the  boat, 
and  I  saw  him  take  her  hands  when  he  left  it. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  see,  for  he  went 
away.  I  waited  till  evening,  then  out  I  crept 
and  called  'Ferry!'  My  wife  came  down— she 
was  aye  ready — and  fetched  me  across.  The 
138 


A  MILLER    OF  DEE 

first  thing  I  did  was  to  go  to  the  till  and  take 
out  four  saxpences.  'Oh/  I  said,  'Jenny, 
ye've  had  four  fares  then?' 

"  'Yes/  she  said,  'just  four/ 

"  'Sure?7  I  said. 

"  'Sure/  she  said,  'MacCreedy.' 

"Have  ye  ever  seen  the  eyes  of  a  rabbit 
when  the  fox  is  nigh  her? 

"I  asked  her  who  they  were,  and  when  she 
told  me  the  names  of  the  first  four,  and  never 
another  name,  I  knew  I'd  lost  her.  She  got  to 
bed  presently,  and  after  she  was  in  bed  I 
waited,  sitting  by  the  fire.  The  question  I 
put  to  meself  was  this:  'Will  I  let  them  have 
her?  Will  I  let  them  tak'  her  away?'  The 
sweat  ran  off  me.  I  thought  maybe  she'd 
forgotten  to  name  him,  but  there  was  her 
eyes;  and  then,  where  was  his  saxpence?  In 
this  life,  parson,  there's  some  things  ye  cannot 
get  over. 

"  'No/  I  said  to  meself,  'either  ye've  took 
up  with  him,  or  else  ye're  goin'  to  tak'  up  with 
him,  or  ye'd  ha'  had  his  saxpence.'  I  felt  my- 
self heavier  than  lead.  'Ye'd  ha'  had  his  sax- 
pence/  I  said  to  meself;  'ther's  no  gettin' 
139 


A  MOTLEY 

over  that/  I  would  have  ye  know  that  my 
wife  was  an  obedient  woman,  she  aye  did  what 
she  was  told,  an'  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  vera 
good  reason  she'd  ha'  had  his  saxpence;  there's 
no  manner  of  doubt  about  it.  I'm  not  one  of 
those  weak-minded  bodies  who  believe  that 
marriages  are  sacred;  I  'm  an  independent 
man.  What  I  say  is,  every  man  for  himself, 
an'  every  woman  too,  and  the  less  of  cant  the 
better.  I  don't  want  ye  to  have  the  chance  to 
take  away  me  reputation  when  I'm  gone,  with 
any  such  foolish  talk.  'Twasn't  the  marriage; 
'twas  just  the  notion  of  their  stealing  her.  I 
never  owed  any  man  of  them  a  penny,  or  a 
good  turn — him  least  of  all;  and  was  I  to  see 
them  steal  her  and  leave  me  bare?  Just  as 
they'd  ha'  stolen  my  saxpences;  the  very  money 
out  of  me  pocket,  if  I'd  ha'  let  them.  I  ask  ye, 
was  I  to  do  that?  Was  I  to  see  meself  going 
back  to  loneliness  before  me  own  eyes?  'No,' 
I  said  to  meself;  'keep  yourselves  to  yourselves, 
I'll  keep  meself  to  mine!'  I  went  and  took  a 
look  at  her  asleep,  and  I  could  fancy  her  with  a 
smile  as  if  she  were  glad  to  ha'  done  with  me — 
going  off  with  him  to  those  others  up  at  the 
140 


A  MILLER  OF  DEE 

village  to  make  a  mock  of  me.  I  thought, 
'Ye've  got  to  do  something,  MacCreedy,  or 
ye'll  just  be  helping  them  to  steal  her  from 
yerself.'  But  what  could  I  do?  I'm  a  man 
that  looks  things  through  and  through,  and 
sees  what's  logical.  There  was  only  one  logic 
to  this;  but,  parson,  I  cried  while  I  was  putting 
the  pillow  to  her  face.  She  struggled  very 
little,  poor  thing — she  was  aye  an  obedient 
woman.  I  sewed  her  body  up  in  a  sack,  and 
all  the  time  I  thought:  ' There  goes  Mac- 
Creedy V  But  I  cannot  say  that  I  regretted  it 
exactly.  Human  nature's  no  so  very  simple. 
Twas  the  hanging  about  the  spot  after,  that 
was  the  ruin  of  me;  if  yeVe  got  things  valuable 
hidden  up,  ye're  bound  to  hang  around  them, 
ye  feel  so  lonely." 

On  the  morning  of  his  execution  MacCreedy 
ate  a  good  breakfast,  and  made  a  wan  attempt 
to  sing  himself  his  favourite  song: 

"  I  care  for  nobody — no,  not  I, 
And  nobody  cares  for  me!" 

1903. 


141 


A  PARTING 

WHEN  one  is  walking  languidly  under 
those  trees  where  a  few  gold  leaves 
are  still  hanging,  and  the  scent  of  brown  dry- 
ing leaves  underfoot,  and  the  sweet,  pungent 
scent  of  leaf  bonfires  is  in  the  air,  and  the 
pursuing  rustle  of  one's  dog  padding  amongst 
leaf-mortality  steals  along  close  behind;  then 
the  beauty,  and  the  pale,  lingering  sunshine, 
and  the  sadness  are  almost  more  than  one  can 
bear.  It  is  all  a  wistful  incarnation  of  the 
ghost  that  will  sometimes  visit  even  the  sanest 
soul,  with  the  words:  Death!  And  then?j 

On  such  a  day  there  is  no  refuge.  It  does 
not  seem  worth  while  to  take  interest  in  a 
world  touched  with  mortality,  it  is  even  im- 
possible to  differentiate  between  the  prosper- 
ous and  the  unfortunate;  for  the  pleasures  and 
pains  of  the  body,  riches  and  destitution,  seem 
like  twin  sisters  in  the  presence  of  that  rustling 
of  dead  leaves.  The  pale  candles  of  life  are 
flickering,  waiting  to  resign,  and  join  darkness. 
143 


A  MOTLEY 

On  such  a  day  the  sky  is  the  greatest  com- 
fort a  man  can  have;  for  though  he  feels 
terribly  that  it  will  never  part,  and  let  his  eyes 
peer  on  and  on  till  they  see  the  top  of  eternity, 
still  it  is  high,  free,  has  a  semblance  of  immor- 
tality, and  perhaps  is  made  up  of  all  the  spirit 
breath  that  has  abandoned  dead  leaves  and 
the  corpses  of  men. 

On  such  a  day,  when  love,  like  a  discouraged 
bird,  moves  her  wings  faintly,  it  is  well  to  stand 
still,  and  look  long  at  the  sky.  The  haunting 
scents,  the  pursuing  rustle,  may  then  for  a 
brief  while  become  deserters;  for  up  there  it 
seems  as  though  the  wings  of  Harmony  were 
still  moving. 

It  was  on  such  a  day  that  in  Kensington 
Gardens  I  saw  the  parting  of  two  poor  souls. 
They  had  been  sitting  side  by  side  in  the  dim 
alley  of  chestnut  trees  which  leads  down  past 
the  Speke  monument  to  the  Serpentine — a 
tall,  burly,  bearded  man,  and  a  white  wisp  of 
a  girl.  There  was  nothing  in  any  way  remark- 
able about  them;  the  man  just  an  ordinary 
business  type,  the  girl,  probably,  a  governess. 
And  they  sat  so  motionless,  talking  in  such  low 
144 


A  PARTING 

voices,  that  I  had  quite  forgotten  them;  for 
on  that  day,  the  tide  of  interest  in  one's  fellow 
creatures  was  at  low  ebb.  But  suddenly  I 
became  conscious  that  they  had  risen.  Half- 
hidden  by  the  trunk  of  the  chestnut  tree, 
whose  few  broad  leaves  were  so  like  hands 
stretched  out  to  the  pale  sunlight,  they  stood 
close  together,  indifferent  to  my  presence; 
and  there  was  that  in  the  way  they  were  look- 
ing at  each  other  which  made  one's  heart  ache. 
Deep  down  in  the  eyes  of  both,  life  was  surely 
dying — dying  quietly  as  ever  were  leaves  just 
about  to  fall.  And  I  knew,  as  certainly  as 
though  all  their  little  history  had  been  made 
plain,  that  this  was  a  last  meeting./  Some  fatal 
force  was  severing  them,  and  though  neither 
confessed,  both  knew  that  it  was  for  ever. 

"And  you'll  write  to  me?" 

"And  when  I  come  back?" 

But  the  words  were  spoken  as  though  all 
words  had  the  same  lack  of  meaning  to  two 
desperate  hearts  each  trying  to  comfort  the 
other.  From  their  talk  it  was  clear  that  they 
were  not  man  and  wife,  but  it  was  certain  too, 
by  the  way  they  touched  and  looked  at  one 
145 


A  MOTLEY 

another,  that  this  was  the  parting  of  those  who 
had  been  lovers;  the  least  of  their  looks  and 
touches  was  full  of  passion,  quivering,  alive. 
The  girl  had  a  little  gold  crucifix  bound  on  her 
breast,  and  while  the  man  talked,  his  thick 
fingers  kept  playing  with  it,  turning  it  over  and 
over,  evidently  without  knowing  what  they 
were  handling.  She  wore,  too,  a  narrow  band 
of  ruby-coloured  velvet  at  her  neck;  and  when 
he  stroked  it,  her  eyes,  of  that  pale  blue  the 
colour  of  flax  flowers,  darkened  as  if  with  de- 
light. Her  face,  which  was  rather  foreign- 
looking,  with  its  high  cheek-bones  and  ashen 
hair,  had  something  of  the  wilted  whiteness  of 
a  flower,  turned  up  to  him,  and  her  hands, 
stroking  and  twisting  at  his  sleeves,  could  no 
more  keep  still  than  her  rapid,  whispering 
voice  with  its  little  un-English  accent.  And 
he — that  burly  fellow — it  was  queer  to  see  the 
twitching  and  quivering  of  his  face,  as  though 
all  the  memories  common  to  these  two  were 
trying  to  break  through  the  thick  mask  of  his 
flesh. 

It  must  have  been  something  very  fateful 
to  drag  them  apart  in  the  full  tide  of  their 
146 


A  PARTING 

passion;  or  was  this  perhaps  only  one  more 
of  those  most  pitiful  of  all  episodes,  when  the 
twin  grim  facts  of  money  and  reputation  have 
tramped  in  on  love?  It  was  hard  to  tell 
which  was  the  stronger  emotion  on  those  faces 
so  close  to  one  another,  pity  for  self,  or  pity 
for  the  other  heart,  about  to  be  left  lonely, 
to  be  bereft  of  its  little  share  of  immortality. 

And  then,  without  even  a  glance  round  to 
see  if  any  one  were  looking,  they  clung  together. 
There  could — they  felt — be  no  doing  that  in 
the  street  or  at  the  railway  station;  but  here, 
in  shadow,  under  trees  that  knew  well  enough 
what  partings  were  like,  with  no  one  to  see 
them  except  one  indifferent  stranger  and  a 
spaniel  dog  stirring  the  dead  leaves  with  its 
long,  black  nose— here  they  could  try  once 
again  to  forget. 

Whatever  their  poor  story — commonplace 
and  little  noble  in  the  world's  eye — they,  thus 
clinging  together,  in  their  love  and  in  the 
presence  of  its  death,  were  symbolic  of  that 
autumn  day,  touched  with  mortality,  when 
all  things  seemed  to  love,  and  yet  lose  love, 
and  pass  out  into  nothingness.  There  was  no 
147 


A  MOTLEY 

statue  in  all  those  Gardens  like  this  dark,  pitiful 
group  of  two  blotted  into  each  other's  arms, 
trying  for  a  last  moment  to  crush  sorrow  to 
death  within  the  prison  of  their  joined  lips. 

But  when  that  kiss  was  over — what  then? 
Would  they  have  courage  to  turn  and  walk 
different  ways,  leaving  their  hearts  hanging 
here  in  the  air,  framed  by  the  sparse,  wan 
leaves,  and  taking  away,  instead,  within  each 
of  them  a  little  hollow  of  rustling  sound? 

They  had  not  that  courage.  They  went 
together,  their  arms  listless,  the  man  trying  to 
bear  himself  indifferently,  the  girl  crying  ever 
so  quietly.  And  as  they  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  Gate,  they  walked  always  slower, 
till  they  had  passed  through  it,  and  stood  still 
on  the  edge  of  the  pavement.  And  as  though, 
indeed,  they  had  left  their  hearts  clinging  in 
the  air  of  the  Gardens,  evermore  to  haunt 
under  those  trees,  they  hardly  even  touched 
one  another,  but  with  one  long,  pitiful  look, 
parted. 

The  sky  had  changed.  It  was  still  high,  but 
as  grey  as  a  dove's  wing;  sunless,  compounded 
of  unshed  tears.  And  a  little  cold,  talking 
148 


A  PARTING 

wind  had  risen,  so  that  when  a  leaf  fell,  it  fled 
away,  turned  over,  fluttered,  and  dropped. 
In  this  wind  people  hurried  as  though  it  were 
telling  them  things  they  wished  not  to  hear; 
and  the  numbers  of  little  birds  balancing  on 
the  bared  boughs  seemed  very  silent;  one 
could  not  tell  whether  they  were  happy. 

In  the  alley  of  chestnut  trees  I  tried  to  find 
the  place  where  those  two  hearts  had  been  left. 
The  wind  had  blown  over;  it  was  lost  in  the 
wilderness  of  grey  air.  But  though  I  could 
not  see  it,  I  knew  it  was  there,  that  kiss  for  ever 
imprinted  on  the  pale  sunlight.  And  I  hunted 
for  it,  desiring  its  warmth  on  this  day  that  was 
like  the  death  of  love.  I  could  not  find  it,  and 
slowly  walked  home,  the  chill  scents  dying 
round  me,  the  pursuing  rustle  of  my  dog, 
padding  in  leaf-mortality,  creeping  along  be- 
hind. 

1909. 


149 


A  BEAST  OF  BURDEN 

1WAS  sitting,  on  a  winter  afternoon,  in  a  sec- 
ond-class compartment  of  the  Paris  train. 
There  was  one  empty  seat,  and  presently  a 
French  sailor  got  in  and  filled  it,  carrying  his 
luggage  in  a  bundle — a  heavy,  thick  young 
fellow,  bolster-like  in  his  dark  blue  clothes, 
and  round  cap  with  a  dark-red  fuzzy  ball 
He  sat  humped  forward  with  a  fist  on  either 
of  his  thighs;  and  his  leathery,  shaven  face,  as 
of  an  ugly  and  neglected  child,  so  motionless, 
that  there  seemed  no  activity  at  all  in  his  brain. 
Suddenly  he  coughed,  long,  almost  silently,  be- 
hind his  hand. 

The  train  started;  we  settled  down  to  sleep 
or  read,  but  the  sailor  sat  motionless,  coughing 
now  and  then  his  smothered,  wheezing  cough. 

At  Amiens,  a  collector  looked  at  our  tickets, 
and  demanded  from  the  sailor  the  difference 
between  a  second  and  third  class  fare.  He 
fumbled  it  slowly,  sadly,  out  of  an  old  leather 
purse. 

151 


A  MOTLEY 

Again  we  started,  but  as  though  this  inci- 
dent had  broken  up  his  stoicism,  the  sailor 
stirred  and  spoke  to  me  in  French.  He  talked 
in  a  turgid,  Flemish  accent,  not  easy  to  under- 
stand, and  at  the  end  of  every  phrase  dropped 
his  lower  lip  as  though  he  had  spoken  his  last 
word.  He  was  on  his  way — it  seemed — from 
Dunkerque  to  join  his  ship  at  Cherbourg;  and 
this  had  been  the  last  train  he  could  catch,  to 
be  in  time.  He  had  left  his  widowed  mother 
without  money,  so  that  to  pay  this  extra  fare 
seemed  terrible  to  him.  For  eighteen  months 
he  had  been  on  foreign  service — for  eighteen 
days  he  had  been  at  home;  and  he  was  now 
going  back,  to  serve  the  remainder  of  his  time 
on  the  China  station.  His  brother  had  been 
killed  by  the  Japanese,  accidentally,  "being 
taken  for  a  Russian.  His  father  had  been 
drowned  off  Iceland,  in  the  summer  fishing. 

"C'est  me  qui  a  une  mere,  c'est  me  qui  est 
seul  a  la  maison.  C'est  elle  qui  n'a  pas  le  sou." 

It  was  his  only  perfect  sentence,  and,  as  he 

finished  it,  he  spat.    Then,  seeing  from  the 

faces  of  the  company  that  this  was  not  the 

thing  to  do,  he  smeared  it  over  with  a  slow, 

152 


A  BEAST  OF  BURDEN 

gritting  movement  of  his  foot.  Looking  up  at 
me  with  his  little,  deep-set  eyes,  he  then  said: 
"C'est  me  qui  est  malade"  and  slowly:  "Vest 
mauvais  pour  les  malades — Vclimat  en  Chine?" 

I  tried  to  reassure  him,  but  he  shook  his  head ; 
and  after  a  long  pause,  said  again:  "C'est  me 
qui  a  une  mere,  c'est  me  qui  est  seul  a  la  maison. 
C'est  eUe  qui  n'a  pas  k  sou."  Tell  me — his 
eyes  seemed  to  ask,  why  are  these  things  so? 
Why  have  I  a  mother  who  depends  on  me  alone, 
when  I  am  being  sent  away  to  die? 

He  rubbed  his  fists  on  his  rounded  thighs, 
then  rested  them;  and  so,  humped  forward 
over  his  outspread  arms,  sat  silent,  staring  in 
front  of  him  with  deep,  dark,  tiny  eyes.  He 
troubled  me  with  no  further  speech;  he  had 
relieved  his  soul.  And,  presently,  like  a  dumb, 
herded  beast,  patient,  mute,  carrying  his  load, 
he  left  me  at  the  terminus;  tbut  it  was  long 
before  I  lost  the  memory  of  his  face  and  of  that 
chant  of  his:  "C'est  me  qui  est  seul  a  la  mai- 
son. .  .  C'est  me  qui  a  une  mere.  C'est  ette 
qui  n'a  pas  le  sou!" 

1905. 


153 


THE  LIME  TREE 

1WAS  lying  on  a  bank  one  July  afternoon 
close  to  a  large  lime  tree.  The  bees  were 
busy  among  her  long,  drooping,  honey-coloured 
blossoms;  the  wind  was  fluttering  all  her 
leaves,  swaying  her  boughs,  and  drifting  her 
scent  towards  me.  And  I  was  thinking,  as  I 
watched  her,  of  the  Hindu  theory  of  Art — how, 
according  to  that  theory,  her  external  shape 
was  of  no  significance  to  the  artist,  and  all 
that  mattered  was  the  idea  of  "tree,"  only 
to  be  realised  by  long  and  devoted  contem- 
plation. For  some  minutes  I  myself  tried  to 
contemplate  her,  gazing  through  her  green- 
clothed  branches  to  see  if  I  could  indeed  see 
her  spirit;  then,  as  is  the  habit  in  Western 
minds,  my  thoughts  went  wandering  off, 
chasing  each  other  like  the  little  buff  or  blue 
butterflies  that  were  all  round  me  skimming 
between  the  spikes  of  grass  and  the  soft  tops 
of  the  clover. 

155 


A  MOTLEY 

There  were  some  red  cattle  in  the  field  be- 
yond, and  they  too  distracted  my  attention, 
and  in  the  distance  a  line  of  moorland,  with  a 
pile  of  stones,  like  the  figure  of  a  man  on  the 
hillside.  But  presently  my  gaze  came  back 
to  the  lime  tree.  She  was  in  a  tumult  now; 
the  wind  had  entered  her  heart,  and  her  shiver- 
ing gust  of  emotion  was  such  that  one  could  not 
choose  but  look  at  her.  It  was  the  passion 
one  sees  when  bees  are  swarming — a  fierce, 
humming  swirl  of  movement,  as  though  she 
had  suddenly  gone  mad  with  life  and  love. 
But  soon  this  tumult  died  away;  she  was  once 
more  a  perfumed,  gracious,  delicately  alluring 
tree. 

"Ah!"  I  thought,  "when  will  you  reveal 
your  soul  to  me?  Are  you  'the  essential  tree' 
when  you  are  cool  and  sweet,  vaguely  seduc- 
tive, as  now,  or  when  you  are  being  whirled  in 
the  arms  of  the  wind  and  seem  so  furiously 
alive?  When  shall  I  see  your  very  spirit?" 

And  again  my  thoughts  went  straying. 
This  time  they  did  not  race  like  the  butterflies, 
but  drifted  drowsily,  as  the  black  bumble- 
bees were  drifting  among  the  foxgloves  and 
156 


THE  LIME  TREE 

purple  vetches.  And  slowly  the  sweetness  of 
that  lime  tree  seemed  to  gather  round  and 
imprison  my  senses,  taking  all  strength  from 
the  wings  of  meditation,  and  dragging  my  head 
lower  and  lower  to  the  grass.  The  uncanny, 
twilight  state — half  sleep — sweetest  of  all  mo- 
ments in  life,  when  the  world  is  still  with  you, 
yet  moonlight-coloured  with  the  coming  fan- 
tasy of  dreams,  wrapped  me  as  in  the  folds  of 
a  swoon. 

And  suddenly  I  saw  lying  close  to  me — yet 
separated  by  a  gulf  of  nothingness,  which  was 
soft  and  cool  to  the  touch  of  my  face  and 
hands — a  woman,  with  amber-coloured  hair 
falling  over  her  breast  and  over  creamy  flowers 
growing  stiffly  round  her,  as  might  asphodels. 
Her  fingers  held  a  big  black  bee  to  her  neck. 
Her  body,  though  nearly  hidden  by  those  stiff, 
tall  flowers,  seemed  very  lovely;  but  it  was 
her  face  that  was  so  wonderful  and  sweet.  It 
was  a  perfect  oval,  and  so  dear  and  tender  as 
to  make  one's  heart  throb.  The  lips  were 
faintly  smiling,  and  beneath  the  eyebrows — 
arched  and  delicate — her  eyes  looked  at  me. 
Never  were  such  velvety  and  dark  and  dewy 
157 


A  MOTLEY 

eyes!  All  round  her  were  falling  innumerable 
petals  of  the  very  faintest  pink  and  honey 
colours;  but  her  eyes  kept  stealing  between 
them  and  fixing  themselves  on  mine.  There 
was  at  one  corner  of  her  mouth  a  tiny  tuck  or 
dimple,  as  might  cling  to  the  lips  of  a  child 
when  some  one  has  been  rough  with  her;  and 
one  ear,  lying  close  to  a  great  buttercup,  was 
coloured  by  it,  and  looked  like  a  little  golden 
shell.  The  petals  as  they  fluttered  down  were 
stirred  by  her  breath,  which  seemed  to  me 
visible,  of  a  silver  hue,  and  full  of  strange,  soft 
music. 

Her  eyes  so  shone  with  love,  that  I  tried  to 
raise  myself  and  go  to  her.  But  I  could  not; 
and  each  time  I  failed  there  came  into  them 
such  mournfulness,  that  I  almost  cried  out. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  this  mournful  look,  her  lips 
continued  to  smile,  and  her  form  quivered  all 
over  amongst  the  tall,  creamy,  asphodel-like 
flowers;  the  hand  which  held  the  great  black 
bee  to  her  neck  never  ceased  to  stroke  the 
creature  with  a  finger  that  was  like  a  moon- 
beam, so  pale  was  it  and  long  and  soft. 

And  I  thought:  "She  shall  be  loved  as  no 
158 


THE  LIME  TREE 

woman  was  ever  loved  by  man!  It  is  she  that 
I  have  looked  for  all  my  life ! "  For  so  it  seemed 
tome! 

But  the  more  I  tried  to  raise  myself  and  go 
to  her,  the  less  could  I.  And  yet  I  felt,  that 
if  I  could  but  reach  her,  I  should  faint  with 
the  sheer  delight  of  it,  and  never  more  come  to 
life  and  reason;  and  this  I  earnestly  desired 
to  do. 

^While  I  was  thus  looking  and  longing,  a 
grey  bird  with  a  narrow  tail,  somewhat  like  a 
cuckoo,  swept  down,  and,  lodging  in  the  crook 
of  her  bare  arm,  stared  into  her  face  with 
bright  round  eyes.  And  there  sprang  up  in  my 
heart  burning  jealousy  that  it  should  be  so 
close  to  her,  and  I  so  far.  The  little  shivers 
that  passed  down  her  bare  arm,  the  colour  of 
pearl,  seemed  to  be  caressing  this  bird,  as  the 
moonbeam  of  her  finger  was  caressing  the  bee 
against  her  neck.  I  could  see  very  well  that 
these  two  creatures,  so  close  to  her  heart,  were 
happy;  and  the  jealousy  grew  and  grew  in 
me,  till  with  all  my  might  I  threw  myself 
towards  her;  but  the  nothingness  between  us 
resisted  me,  and  I  fell  back  exhausted. 
159 


A  MOTLEY 

Then  I  saw  her  lift  the  finger,  which  caressed 
the  bee;  curving  it  towards  herself,  she  looked 
at  me;  and  on  her  lips  there  came  the  sweetest 
and  strangest  of  all  smiles.  Seeing  her  smile 
thus  I  struggled  desperately  against  the  cold, 
smooth  nothingness,  and  while  I  struggled  I 
saw  her  quiver  and  writhe  as  though  she  too 
wanted  to  come  to  me.  Her  breast  heaved,  her 
eyes  grew  deeper,  darker;  they  filled  with 
glistening  moisture,  and  seemed  to  entreat  me. 
I  tried  to  cry  out  to  her,  "I  am  coming!" 
But  the  words  were  pressed  back  into  my  lips 
by  that  chill,  smooth  nothingness,  and  slowly 
I  saw  her  eyes  grow  mournful  and  wan,  and 
her  limbs  cease  quivering.  Then,  straining 
with  a  furious  strength  that  I  never  thought  to 
have  had  against  the  colourless,  impalpable 
barrier,  I  crept  forward  inch  by  inch;  and  as 
I  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  I  saw  her 
eyes  liven  again,  and  begin  to  glow  sweet  and 
warm  as  the  sun  through  heather  honey  or 
burnt  wine;  shivers  ran  through  her  limbs,  a 
lock  of  her  hair  floated  towards  me,  and  there 
was  such  love  in  her  face  as  no  mortal  has  ever 
seen.  The  great,  black  bee,  too,  left  her  neck, 
160 


THE  LIME  TREE 

and  flying  poised  within  an  inch  of  it,  let  forth 
from  his  wings  the  gentlest  imaginable  hum- 
ming; even  the  bird  on  her  arm,  unafraid, 
moved  its  head  up  and  down  towards  me,  and 
fastened  its  soft,  black  eyes  on  my  face  as 
though  aware  that  this  was  the  moment  of  my 
triumph.  I  stretched  out  to  her  my  arms,  and 
at  the  touch  of  them  she  laughed.  No  sound 
that  ever  man  heard  was  so  tender  as  that 
laugh.  Her  hair  brushed  my  lips;  a  drift  of 
perfume  smothered  me.  I  sank  into  a  delicious 
darkness,  losing  all  sense  of  everything,  as  if  I 
had  been  drowned.  .  .  . 

A  lime-blossom  loosened  by  the  bees  and 
the  wind,  had  drifted  across  my  lips;  its  scent 
was  in  my  nostrils.  There  was  nothing  before 
me  but  the  fields  and  the  moor,  and,  close  by, 
the  lime  tree.  I  looked  at  her.  She  seemed 
to  me  far  away,  coldly  fair,  formal  in  her  green 
beflowered  garb;  but,  for  all  that,  I  knew  that, 
in  my  dream,  I  had  seen  and  touched  her  soul. 

1909. 


161 


THE  NEIGHBOURS 

IN  the  remote  country,  Nature,  at  first  sight 
so  serene,  so  simple,  will  soon  intrude  on 
her  observer  a  strange  discomfort;  a  feeling 
that  some  familiar  spirit  haunts  the  old  lanes, 
rocks,  wasteland,  and  trees,  and  has  the  power 
to  twist  all  living  things  around  into  some 
special  shape  befitting  its  genius. 

When  moonlight  floods  the  patch  of  moor- 
land about  the  centre  of  the  triangle  between 
the  little  towns  of  Hartland,  Torrington,  and 
Holsworthy,  a  pagan  spirit  steals  forth  through 
the  wan  gorse;  gliding  round  the  stems  of 
the  lonely,  gibbet-like  fir-trees,  peeping  out 
amongst  the  reeds  of  the  white  marsh.  That 
spirit  has  the  eyes  of  a  borderer,  who  perceives 
in  every  man  a  possible  foe.  And  in  fact,  this 
high  corner  of  the  land  has  remained  border 
to  this  day,  where  the  masterful,  acquisitive 
invader  from  the  North  dwells  side  by  side 
with  the  unstable,  proud,  quick-blooded  Celt- 
Iberian. 

163 


A  MOTLEY 

In  two  cottages  crowning  some  fallow  land 
two  families  used  to  live  side  by  side.  That 
long  white  dwelling  seemed  all  one,  till  the 
eye,  peering  through  the  sweet-brier  which 
smothered  the  right-hand  half,  perceived  the 
rude,  weather-beaten  presentment  of  a  Run- 
ning Horse,  denoting  the  presence  of  intoxicat- 
ing liquors;  and  in  a  window  of  the  left-hand 
half,  that  strange  conglomeration  of  edibles 
and  shoe-leather  which  proclaims  the  one  shop 
of  a  primitive  hamlet. 

These  married  couples  were  by  name  Sand- 
ford  at  the  eastern,  and  Leman  at  the  western 
end;  and  he  who  saw  them  for  the  first  time 
thought:  "What  splendid-looking  people!" 

They  were  all  four  above  the  average  height, 
and  all  four  as  straight  as  darts.  The  inn- 
keeper, Sandford,  was  a  massive  man,  stolid, 
grave,  light-eyed,  with  big  fair  moustaches, 
who  might  have  stepped  straight  out  of  some 
Norseman's  galley.  Leman  was  lean  and  lathy, 
a  regular  Celt,  with  an  amiable,  shadowy, 
humorous  face.  The  two  women  were  as 
different  as  the  men.  Mrs.  Sandford's  fair, 
almost  transparent  cheeks  coloured  easily,  her 
164 


THE  NEIGHBOURS 

eyes  were  grey,  her  hair  pale  brown;  Mrs. 
Leman's  hair  was  of  a  lustreless  jet-black,  her 
eyes  the  colour  of  a  peaty  stream,  and  her 
cheeks  had  the  close  creamy  texture  of  old 
ivory. 

Those  accustomed  to  their  appearance  soon 
noted  the  qualifications  of  their  splendour.  In 
Sandford,  whom  neither  sun  nor  wind  ever 
tanned,  there  was  a  look  as  if  nothing  would 
ever  turn  him  from  acquisition  of  what  he  had 
set  his  heart  on;  his  eyes  had  the  idealism 
of  the  worshipper  of  property,  ever  marching 
towards  a  heaven  of  great  possessions.  Fol- 
lowed by  his  cowering  spaniel,  he  walked  to 
his  fields  (for  he  farmed  as  well  as  kept  the  inn) 
with  a  tread  that  seemed  to  shake  the  lanes, 
disengaging  an  air  of  such  heavy  and  com- 
plete insulation  that  even  the  birds  were  still. 
He  rarely  spoke.  He  was  not  popular.  He 
was  feared,  no  one  quite  knew  why. 

On  Mrs.  Sandford,  for  all  her  pink  and. 
white,  sometimes  girlish  look,  he  had  set  the 
mark  of  his  slow,  heavy  domination.  Her 
voice  was  seldom  heard.  Once  in  a  while, 
however,  her  reserve  would  yield  to  garrulity, 
165 


A  MOTLEY 

as  of  water  flowing  through  a  broken  dam. 
In  these  outbursts  she  usually  spoke  of  her 
neighbours  the  Lemans,  deploring  the  state 
of  their  marital  relations.  "A  woman,"  she 
would  say,  "must  give  way  to  a  man  sometimes; 
I've  had  to  give  way  to  Sandford  myself,  I 
have."  Her  lips,  from  long  compression,  had 
become  thin  as  the  edge  of  a  teacup;  all  her 
character  seemed  to  have  been  driven  down 
below  the  surface  of  her  long,  china-white  face. 
She  had  not  broken,  but  she  had  chipped; 
her  edges  had  become  jagged,  sharp.  The 
consciousness,  that  she  herself  had  been  beaten 
to  the  earth,  seemed  to  inspire  in  her  that 
waspish  feeling  towards  Mrs.  Leman — "a 
woman  with  a  proud  temper,"  as  she  would 
say  in  her  almost  lady-like  voice;  "a  woman 
who's  never  bowed  down  to  a  man — that's 
what  she'll  tell  you  herself.  'Tisn't  the  drink 
that  makes  Leman  behave  so  mad,  'tis  because 
she  won't  give  way  to  him.  We're  glad  to  sell 
drink  to  any  one  we  can,  of  course;  but  'tisn't 
that  what's  makin'  Leman  so  queer.  'Tis  her." 
Leman,  whose  long  figure  was  often  to  be 
seen  seated  on  the  wooden  bench  of  his  neigh- 
166 


THE  NEIGHBOURS 

hour's  stone-flagged  little  inn,  had,  indeed, 
begun  to  have  the  soaked  look  and  scent 
of  a  man  never  quite  drunk,  and  hardly  ever 
sober.  He  spoke  slowly,  his  tongue  seemed 
thickening;  he  no  longer  worked;  his  humor- 
ous, amiable  face  had  grown  hangdog  and 
clouded.  All  the  village  knew  of  his  passionate 
outbreaks,  and  bursts  of  desperate  weeping; 
and  of  two  occasions  when  Sandford  had  been 
compelled  to  wrest  a  razor  from  him.  People 
took  a  morbid  interest  in  this  rapid  deteriora- 
tion, speaking  of  it  with  misgiving  and  relish, 
unanimous  in  their  opinion  that — "summat'd 
'appen  about  that;  the  drink  wer  duin'  for 
George  Leman,  that  it  wer,  praaperly!" 

But  Sandford — that  blond,  ashy-looking 
Teuton — was  not  easy  of  approach,  and  no 
one  cared  to  remonstrate  with  him;  his  taci- 
turnity was  too  impressive,  too  impenetra- 
ble. Mrs.  Leman,  too,  never  complained. 
To  see  this  black-haired  woman,  with  her 
stoical,  alluring  face,  come  out  for  a  breath  of 
air,  and  stand  in  the  sunlight,  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  was  to  have  looked  on  a  very  woman  of 
the  Britons.  In  conquering  races  the  men, 
167 


A  MOTLEY 

they  say,  are  superior  to  the  women,  in  con- 
quered races,  the  women  to  the  men.  She 
was  certainly  superior  to  Leman.  That  wom- 
an might  be  bent  and  mangled,  she  could 
not  be  broken;  her  pride  was  too  simple,  too 
much  a  physical  part  of  her.  No  one  ever 
saw  a  word  pass  between  her  and  Sandford. 
It  was  almost  as  if  the  old  racial  feelings  of 
this  borderland  were  pursuing  in  these  two 
their  unending  conflict.  For  there  they  lived, 
side  by  side  under  the  long,  thatched  roof, 
this  great  primitive,  invading  male,  and  that 
black-haired,  lithe-limbed  woman  of  older 
race,  avoiding  each  other,  never  speaking — as 
much  too  much  for  their  own  mates  as  they 
were,  perhaps,  worthy  of  each  other. 

In  this  lonely  parish,  houses  stood  far  apart, 
yet  news  travelled  down  the  May-scented  lanes 
and  over  the  whin-covered  moor  with  a  strange 
speed;  blown  perhaps  by  the  west  wind, 
whispered  by  the  pagan  genius  of  the  place  in 
his  wanderings,  or  conveyed  by  small  boys  on 
large  farm  horses. 

On  Whit-Monday  it  was  known  that  Leman 
had  been  drinking  all  Sunday;  for  he  had  been 
168 


THE  NEIGHBOURS 

heard  on  Sunday  night  shouting  out  that  his 
wife  had  robbed  him,  and  that  her  children 
were  not  his.  All  next  day  he  was  seen  sitting 
in  the  bar  of  the  inn  soaking  steadily.  Yet  on 
Tuesday  morning  Mrs.  Leman  was  serving  in 
her  shop  as  usual — a  really  noble  figure,  with 
that  lustreless  black  hair  of  hers — very  silent, 
and  ever  sweetening  her  eyes  to  her  customers. 
Mrs.  Sandford,  in  one  of  her  bursts  of  garrulity, 
complained  bitterly  of  the  way  her  neighbours 
had  "gone  on"  the  night  before.  But  un- 
moved, ashy,  stolid  as  ever,  Sandford  worked 
in  the  most  stony  of  his  fields. 

That  hot,  magnificent  day  wore  to  its  end; 
a  night  of  extraordinary  beauty  fell.  In  the 
gold  moonlight  the  shadows  of  the  lime-tree 
leaves  lay,  blacker  than  any  velvet,  piled  one 
on  the  other  at  the  foot  of  the  little  green. 
It  was  very  warm.  A  cuckoo  called  on  till 
nearly  midnight.  A  great  number  of  little 
moths  were  out;  and  the  two  broad  meadows 
which  fell  away  from  the  hamlet  down  to  the 
stream  were  clothed  in  a  glamorous  haze  of 
their  own  moonlit  buttercups.  Where  that 
marvellous  moonlight  spread  out  across  the 
169 


A  MOTLEY 

moor  it  was  all  pale  witchery;  only  the  three 
pine-trees  had  strength  to  resist  the  wan  gold 
of  their  fair  visitor,  and  brooded  over  the  scene 
like  the  ghosts  of  three  great  gallows.  The 
long  white  dwelling  of  "the  neighbours," 
bathed  in  that  vibrating  glow,  seemed  to  be 
exuding  a  refulgence  of  its  own.  Beyond  the 
stream  a  night- jar  hunted,  whose  fluttering 
harsh  call  tore  the  garment  of  the  scent-laden 
still  air.  It  was  long  before  sleep  folded  her 
wings. 

A  little  past  twelve  o'clock  there  was  the 
sound  of  a  double  shot.  By  five  o'clock  next 
morning  the  news  had  already  travelled  far; 
and  before  seven,  quite  a  concourse  had  gath- 
ered to  watch  two  mounted  constables  take 
Leman  on  Sandford's  pony  to  Bide  ford  gaol. 
The  dead  bodies  of  Sandford  and  Mrs.  Leman 
lay — so  report  ran — in  the  locked  bedroom  at 
Leman's  end  of  the  neighbours'  house.  Mrs. 
Sandford,  in  a  state  of  collapse,  was  being 
nursed  at  a  neighbouring  cottage.  The  Leman 
children  had  been  taken  to  the  Rectory.  Alone 
of  the  dwellers  in  those  two  cottages,  Sand- 
ford's  spaniel  sat  in  a  gleam  of  early  sunlight 
170 


THE  NEIGHBOURS 

under  the  eastern  porch,  with  her  nose  fixed 
to  the  crack  beneath  the  door. 

It  was  vaguely  known  that  Leman  had 
"done  for  'em";  of  the  how,  the  why,  the 
when,  all  was  conjecture.  Nor  was  it  till  the 
assizes  that  the  story  of  that  night  was  made 
plain,  from  Leman's  own  evidence,  read  from 
a  dirty  piece  of  paper: 

"I,  George  Leman,  make  this  confession — 
so  help  me  God!  When  I  came  up  to  bed 
that  evening,  I  was  far  gone  in  liquor  and  so 
had  been  for  two  days  off  and  on,  which  Sand- 
ford  knows.  My  wife  was  in  bed.  I  went 
up,  and  I  said  to  her:  'Get  up!'  I  said;  'do 
what  I  tell  you  for  once!'  'I  will  not!'  she 
said.  So  I  pulled  the  bedclothes  off  her. 
When  I  saw  her  all  white  like  that,  with  her 
black  hair,  it  turned  me  queer,  and  I  ran 
downstairs  and  got  my  gun,  and  loaded  it. 
When  I  came  upstairs  again,  she  was  against 
the  door.  I  pushed,  and  she  pushed  back. 
She  didn't  call  out,  or  say  one  word — but 
pushed;  she  was  never  one  to  be  afraid.  I 
was  the  stronger,  and  I  pushed-in  the  door. 
She  stood  up  against  the  bed,  defying  me  with 
171 


A  MOTLEY 

her  mouth  tight  shut,  the  way  she  had;  and 
I  put  up  my  gun  to  shoot  her.  It  was  then 
that  Sandford  came  running  up  the  stairs  and 
knocked  the  gun  out  of  my  hand  with  his 
stick.  He  hit  me  a  blow  over  the  heart  with 
his  fist,  and  I  fell  down  against  the  wall,  and 
couldn't  move.  And  he  said:  'Keep  quiet!7 
he  said,  'you  dog!7  Then  he  looked  at  her. 
'And  as  for  you/  he  said,  'you  bring  it  on 
yourself!  You  can't  bow  down,  can't  you? 
I'll  bow  you  down  for  once!'  And  he  took 
and  raised  his  stick.  But  he  didn't  strike  her, 
he  just  looked  at  her  in  her  nightdress,  which 
was  torn  at  the  shoulders,  and  her  black  hair 
ragged.  She  never  said  a  word,  but  smiled  at 
him.  Then  he  caught  hold  of  her  by  the  arms, 
and  they  stood  there.  I  saw  her  eyes;  they 
were  as  black  as  two  sloes.  He  seemed  to  go 
all  weak  of  a  sudden,  and  white  as  the  wall. 
It  was  like  as  they  were  struggling  which  was 
the  better  of  them,  meaning  to  come  to  one 
another  at  the  end.  I  saw  what  was  in  them  as 
clear  as  I  see  this  paper.  I  got  up  and  crept 
round,  and  I  took  the  gun  and  pointed  it,  and 
pulled  the  triggers  one  after  the  other,  and 
172 


THE  NEIGHBOURS 

they  fell  dead,  first  him,  then  her;  they  fell 
quietly,  neither  of  them  made  a  noise.  I 
went  out,  and  lay  down  on  the  grass.  They 
found  me  there  when  they  came  to  take  me. 
This  is  all  I  have  to  write,  but  it  is  true  that  I 
was  far  gone  in  liquor,  which  I  had  of  him  .  .  ." 

1909. 


173 


THE  RUNAGATES 

EVERYTHING  was  still.  It  was  sun- 
down, there  was  not  the  faintest  breeze 
to  stir  the  warm,  sleepy  air. 

Along  the  straggling  street,  the  light  lay 
soft  on  whitewashed  houses,  rounding  the 
angles,  and  tingeing  the  walls,  roofs,  doorways 
with  a  faint,  lustrous  pink.  In  the  open  space 
by  the  Chapel  of  Ease,  or  at  the  doors  of  shops 
and  houses  were  figures — lolling,  or  gossiping 
drowsily  in  the  soft,  Devonshire  drawl. 

In  front  of  the  Inn  sprawled  a  spaniel  pup, 
all  head  and  legs,  playing  with  its  own  ears, 
and  gaping  helplessly  at  the  children  who  ran 
out  of  by-streets,  chased  each  other  lazily, 
and  disappeared.  An  old  man  in  fustian,  with 
a  bushy  projecting  beard,  leaned  heavily  on 
a  stick  against  the  wall,  turning  to  mutter 
sleepily  to  some  one  within.  There  was  a 
faint,  distant  cawing  of  rooks,  a  smell  of  bacon 
and  old  hay,  of  burning  wood,  of  honeysuckle. 
175 


A  MOTLEY 

Then  on  the  nodding  village  came  the  sound 
of  van-wheels,  and  with  it  a  kind  of  stir  and 
rustle. 

That  sound  of  wheels  grew  louder,  then 
ceased;  opposite  the  Chapel  of  Ease  stood  a 
gypsy  van,  cavernous,  black,  weather-stained, 
with  baskets,  strings  of  onions,  pans,  a  tiny 
blue  thread  of  rising  smoke,  a  smell  of  old 
clothes. 

The  horse  stood  where  it  was  stopped, 
without  movement,  drooping  its  tired  head; 
by  its  side  a  gypsy  girl  stretched  herself,  rest- 
ing on  one  leg,  with  her  hands  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  where  the  light  played  tricks  with 
her  blue-black  hair,  giving  it  the  colour  of 
bronze. 

Lithe  as  a  snake,  she  glanced  from  side  to 
side  with  dark  eyes,  hitching  at  her  skirt,  and 
settling  a  dingy  scarf  across  her  chest.  Her 
angular  features  had  the  oblique  cat-like  cast 
of  her  race. 

A  broad  old  man  with  iron-grey  hair  and 
coppery  visage  leaned  over  the  shaft,  and 
talked  to  some  one  inside. 

The  stir  and  rustle  began  again. 
176 


THE  RUNAGATES 

Children  were  running  out  of  houses,  shops, 
alleys,  everywhere — boys  and  girls.  In  white 
frocks,  coloured  frocks,  with  clean  faces,  and 
dirty  faces;  hustling  each  other  on,  then 
standing  quite  still. 

Their  hands  were  clasped  in  each  others', 
their  mouths  wide  open.  They  stood  in  a 
half-ring,  many-coloured,  hushed,  a  yard  or 
two  from  the  van,  shuffling  up  the  dust  with 
their  feet,  whispering.  Sometimes  they  would 
break  a  little,  as  if  for  flight,  then  close  up 
nearer.  An  old  woman,  with  thick  hair  and 
hooked  nose,  emerged  from  the  van  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms.  A  little  girl  clutching  at 
her  dress  hid  behind  her.  Continual  quivers 
of  sound  like  the  trembling  of  telegraph  wires 
ran  through  the  ring  of  children. 

The  old  woman  put  the  baby  into  the  man's 
arms,  lifted  the  child  to  the  front  of  the  van, 
and  moved  away,  talking  quickly  to  the  girl  in 
a  low  voice.  Their  figures  disappeared  amongst 
the  houses,  and  the  ring  of  children  sagged 
nearer  to  the  van;  fingers  began  to  creep  out, 
and  point;  on  the  outskirts  boys  took  little 
runs  to  and  fro. 

177 


A  MOTLEY 

Slowly  the  pink  flush  died  out  of  the  light, 
forms  took  harder  outlines;  a  faint  humming 
of  gnats  began;  and  suddenly  the  sound  of 
voices  broke  forth,  high-pitched  in  argu- 
ment. 

The  old  fellow  against  the  Inn  wall  spat  over 
the  bush  of  his  beard,  stretched,  called  in  an 
angry  mutter,  and  stumped  away,  leaning  on 
his  stick;  the  spaniel  puppy  retreated  uneasily 
into  the  Inn,  uttering  shrill  barks  over  its 
shoulder;  people  came  out  of  doorways,  stared 
at  the  van,  and  turning  on  their  heels  abruptly 
vanished.  That  foreign  thing  which  had  come 
into  the  village,  had  brought  with  it  changes 
as  subtle  as  the  play  of  light. 

The  old  gypsy  stood  with  his  arms  leaning 
on  the  shaft,  whistling  and  filling  a  pipe; 
over  against  him  on  the  edge  of  the  driving 
board,  sat  the  child  and  the  baby,  flaxen- 
haired  mites  with  sunburnt  faces;  both  were 
silent  as  dolls,  and  had  something  doll-like 
in  their  looks,  as  if  set  out  for  inspection. 

So  the  ring  of  children  seemed  to  think, 
nudging  one  another  and  whispering;  one 
or  two  of  the  elder  girls  stretched  out  their 
178 


THE  RUNAGATES 

hands  to  the  baby,  and  drew  them  back  with 
frightened  giggles. 

The  boys  began  to  play — familiarity  had 
bred  contempt  in  them  already;  but  the  girls 
stood  fascinated,  their  yellow  heads  bobbing 
and  twisting,  their  fingers  beckoning  or  point- 
ing. 

The  light  was  softening  again,  becoming 
greyer,  mysterious;  things  lost  certainty  in 
the  gloom,  receded  and  wavered;  the  fitful 
glimmer  of  a  window  lamp  grew  steady. 

The  old  gypsy's  voice  began,  clear  and  per- 
suasive, talking  to  the  children.  Up  the  street 
a  concertina  had  started  "Rule  Britannia"  in 
polka  time;  there  were  sounds  of  scuffling  and 
dancing;  two  voices  were  raised  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  Inn. 

A  cart  came  rattling  out  between  the  dim 
houses.  A  dog  barked;  the  voices  of  the 
boys  at  play  grew  shriller;  there  broke  out 
the  wailing  of  a  baby,  and  the  skirl  of  a  con- 
certina rising  and  falling.  A  woman  came  out 
scolding,  and  dragged  two  of  the  girls  away: 

"What  d'yu  want  with  gypsies  then?  Yu 
pair  o'  fules," 

179 


A  MOTLEY 

A  group  of  men  surged  in  a  doorway,  volu- 
ble, laughing;  their  faces  mere  blurs,  and  the 
bowls  of  their  pipes  glowing  and  sending  forth 
a  splutter  of  sparks.  Across  the  bluish  dark- 
ness the  house-lamps  threw  out  their  fan- 
shaped  gleams.  In  one  of  them  the  heads  of 
the  old  gypsy  and  the  two  children  were  out- 
lined ruddy  and  gold-coloured  against  the 
grim  cavern  of  the  van. 

Then,  as  if  starting  from  the  earth,  the  forms 
of  the  two  women  reappeared;  the  old  gypsy 
withdrew  his  arms  from  the  shaft,  there  was  a 
confused  mutter,  a  rapid  stir,  a  girl's  uneasy 
laugh;  the  old  horse  gave  a  jerk  forward — 
the  van  moved.  In  front,  dragging  at  the 
horse's  bridle,  the  bent  figure  of  the  gypsy  girl 
slipped,  dark  and  noiseless,  into  the  night; 
with  a  heavy  rumbling  the  black  van  disap- 
peared. 

There  was  a  sound  like  a  sigh  in  the  street, 
a  patter  of  footsteps.  A  man  yawned  slowly, 
another  called: 

"Yu  mind  that  ther',  wull'ee?" 

A  pipe  was  knocked  out  against  wood  with 
a  sharp  tap. 

180 


THE  RUNAGATES 

"Waal,  mebbe  yure  raight.  Tis  main  'ot 
zurely — gude  avenin'." 

"Gude  naight,  Wellium." 

"Gude  naight." 

"Yu'le  tak'  the  ole  'arse  then?" 

"That's  as  mebbe — waal,  gude  naight." 

"Gude  naight." 

The  sound  of  voices  and  receding  footsteps 
yielded  to  a  hush,  soft  and  deep  as  the  black- 
ness of  the  harvest  night.  The  scent  of  the 
freshening  earth  filled  all  the  drowsy  air;  a 
faint  breeze  like  the  passing  of  a  spirit  went 
shivering  through  the  village. 

A  dim  form  stood  noiseless  in  the  street, 
listening  to  the  concertina  drawling  out  the 
last  notes  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home."  One 
by  one  the  fan-shaped  splashes  flickered  off 
the  walls;  blackness  took  their  place. 

1900. 


181 


A  REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

/ 

TT  7E  sat  smoking  after  dinner  in  a  coun- 

VV  try  house.  Some  one  was  saying: 
"  They're  either  too  conceited,  too  much  in 
earnest,  too  much  after  advertisement,  too 
effeminate,  or  too  dirty — I  never  found  liter- 
ary men  amusing." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  approval,  till  a  sallow 
man  who  had  not  spoken  all  the  evening,  ex- 
cept to  ask  for  matches,  emerged  from  the 
shadow  of  his  chair  .  .  . 

"You're  wrong,"  he  said.  "The  most  di- 
verting thing  I  ever  came  across  was  in  con- 
nection with  two  literary  men.  It  happened 
some  years  ago  at  an  Italian  inn,  in  a  place 
where  there  were  ruins.  I  was  travelling 

with  poor  B ,  and  at  that  inn  we  came 

across  a  literary  man,  a  regular  Classicist, 
looking  up  items  for  an  historical  romance. 
He  was  very  good  company — a  prosperous, 
clever,  satirical  creature,  who  wore  a  mous- 


A  MOTLEY 

tache,  and  thought  it  wicked  not  to  change  for 
dinner.  In  spite  of  this  he  had  his  limitations. 
— but  we  all  have  them,  even  we  sitting  herej 
TBis  inn  was  a  queer  place — at  a  crossing  of 
two  \roads  in  the  midst  of  brown  hills — with 
blistered  eucalyptus  trees  throwing  ragged 
shadows  on  it,  and  two  old  boar-spears  fas- 
tened up  over  the  door.  We  were  the  only  peo- 
ple there,  and  it  was  very  hot.  We  used  to 
dine  outside  the  entrance,  in  the  shade  of  the 
eucalyptus  trees.  There  was  a  wonderful  tap 
of  wine;  and  after  toiling  over  ruins  in  the 
sun  all  day,  we  used  to  punish  it — the  Classi- 
cist especially;  it  sharpened  his  wit  and  thick- 
ened his  tongue.  He  was  a  man  of  culture, 
great  believer  in  physical  sports,  and  knew  all 
about  everybody's  ancestors — was,  himself, 
fifteen  degrees  removed  from  a  murderer  of 
Thomas  A'Becket,  and  a  friend  of  the  cham- 
pion tennis-player.  ;We  got  on  very  well; 
he  was  quite  amusing  and  affable. 

"It  was  about  sunset  on  the  fourth  evening 

when  the  other  literary  person  turned  up.    He 

came  just  as  we  were  going  to  dinner — a  long, 

weedy  fellow,  slouching  in  under  a  knapsack, 

184 


A 'REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

.  covered  with  dust,  in  a  battered  'larrikin'  hat, 
unshaved,  with  eyes  as  keen  as  sword-points, 
a  lot  of  hair,  and  an  emotional  mouth,  like  a 
girl's.  He  sprawled  down  on  a  bench  close  to 
our  table,  unslung  his  pack,  and  appeared  to 
lose  himself  in  the  ^m^r-JWBen'  our  host 
came  out-witb-iiie-8orlip,  he  asked  for  wine  and 
a  be~3T[B-- —  suggested  that  he  should  join 
us;  he  accepted,  and  sat  down  forthwith.  I 

sat  at  one  end,  B opposite;    this  fellow 

and  the  Classicist,  who  wore  a  smoking  jacket, 
and  smelt  tremendously  of  soap,  faced  each 
other.  From  the  first  moment  it  was  a  case 
of  'two  of  a  trade.'  The  moment  their  eyes 
met,  ironical  smiles  began  wandering  about 
their  mouths.  There  was  little  enough  talk 
till  we  had  broached  our  third  bottle.  The 
Classicist  was  a  noble  drinker;  this  wild  man 
of  the  ways  a  nobler,  or  perhaps  more  thirsty. 
I  remember  the  first  words  they  exchanged. 
The  Classicist,  in  his  superior,  thick,  satirical 
voice,  was  deploring  'the  unmanly  tricks'  in- 
troduced nowadays  into  swordsmanship,  to 
the  detriment  of  its  dignity  and  grace. 
"  'It  would  be  interesting  to  know,  sir,' 
185 


A  MOTLEY 

said  the  other,  'when  you're  fighting  for  life, 
what  is  the  good  of  those  " tickle  points  of; 
niceness"?'     The   Classicist    looked  at  him: I 
" '  You  would  wish,  I  should  imagine,  to  "play 
the  game,"  sir?' 

"  'With  my  enemy's  sword  through  the 
middle  of  me?' 

"The  Classicist  answered:  'I  should  have 
thought  it  a  matter  of  "good  form";  how- 
ever, if  you  don't  feel  that — of  course ' 

"  'JL  have  not  the  good  fortune  to  be  a 
swordsr^an;  but  if  I  were,  I  should  be  con- 
cerned to  express  my  soul  with  the  point  of 
my  sword,  hot  with  attitudes.' 

"  'Noble  aspiration!' 

"  'Just  as  I  drink  off  at  a  draught  this  most 
excellent  wine.' 

"  'Evidently  you  s$re  not  concerned  with 
flavour?' 

"  'Its  flavour,  sir,  is  the  feeling  it  gives  me 
— Burn  Academy,  and  all  its  works!' 

"The  Classicist  turned  to  me  elaborately 
and  asked: 

"  'Do  you  know  young  D ,  the  author 

of  ?    You   ought   to;    there's   no  d— d 

186 


A  REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

Mionsense  about  him.1  The  man  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  laid  his  soiled  hand  on  his 
soiled  chest.  '  A  hit.  I  feel  honoured/ 

"The  Classicist  continued  his  remarks.  'No 
"expressions  of  soul"  and  that  sort  of  thing 
about  D !' 

"  'Oh!  happy  D !'  murmured  our  vis- 
itor. '  And  is  the  happy  D an  artist  in  his 

writings?'  V 

"The  Classicist  turned  and  rent  him.  'He's 
a  public  school  man,  sir,  and  a  gentleman, 
which,  in  my  humble  opinion,  is  much  bet- 
ter/ 

"The  newcomer  drank.  'That  is  very  in- 
teresting. I  must  read  D .  Has  he  given 

us  any  information  about  <the  inner  meaning 
of  life  in  public  schools? ' 

"  'No,  sir,  he  is  not  a  prig.'  \. 

"  'Indeed!  He  must  have  English  blood 
in  him,  this  gentleman!' 

"  'He  knows  the  meaning  of  "good  form" 
anyway.' 

"Our  visitor  clutched  his  glass  and  shook  it 
in  the  air.  'Sir,'  he  said,  'with  all  my  heart, 
with  all  my  blood,  I  revolt  against  those  words 
187 


A  MOTLEY 

"good  form";  I  revolt  against  the  commercial 
snobbery  that  underlies  them;  I  revolt  against 
the  meanness  and  the  Pharisaism  of  them;  I 

revolt '  and  still  he  went  on  shaking  his 

glass  and  saying  'I  revolt.' 

"The  Classicist  ironically  murmured :  'Sparge 
rosas !  Inania  verba ! ' 

"  'No^flHr^"*"^kiged  words,"  that  I  will 
drivtfliome  with  my  last  breath.' 

"The  Classicist  smiled:  'An  Emotional,'  he 
began,  'an  Emotional  A  .' 

"Gentlemen,  it  was  time  to  interfere,  so  I 
upset  the  bottle.  The  wine  streamed  across 
the  table.  We  ordered  more.  Darkness  had 
gathered;  the  moon  was  rising;  over  the  door 
the  reflections  of  those  old  boar-spears  branched 
sharp  and  long  on  the  pale  wall;  they  had  an 
uncanny  look,  like  cross-bones.  How  those 
two  fellows  disliked  each  other!  Whole  cen- 
turies of  antagonism  glared  out  of  their  eyes. 
They  seemed  to  sum  up  in  some  mysterious 
way  all  that's  significant  and  opposed  in  the 
artist  and  the  man  of  action.  It  was  exceed- 
ingly funny.  They  were  both  learned  pigs. 
But  the  ancestors  of  the  one  might  from  time 
188 


A  REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

4 

immemorable  have  been  burning  and  stamping 

on  the  other,  and  the  ancestors  of  the  other 
stabbing  desperately  up  at  the  one.  One  rep- 
resented a  decent  well-fed  spirit  of  satisfac- 
tion with  things  as  they  are,  and  the  other  a 
ravening  shade,  whom  centuries  of  starvation 
had  engrained  with  strife.  For  all  I  know  they 
may  both  have  been  the  sons  of  chemists. 
But  anyway,  some  instinct  made  each  recog- 
nise the  other  as  typical  of  what  he  had  most 
cause  to  hate.  |  Very  obscure  the  reasons  of 
such  things — very  obscure  everything  to  do 
with  origins! 

"We  ordered  another  bottle.  Any  other 
two  men,  having  discovered  such  hostility, 
would  have  held  their  tongues;  these  couldn't 
— I  have  noticed  it  with  members  of  their  pro- 
fession. The  Emotionalist  proposed  a  toast: 
'I  give  you/  he  said,  'the  country  most  im- 
mersed in  the  slough  of  commercialism,  the 
country  that  suffocates  truth  in  its  cradle  with 
the  smell  of  money,  the  country  of  snobs  and 
stock  jobbers!'  He  drank  his  own  toast  with 
enthusiasm;  needless  to  say,  nobody  else  did. 
The  Classicist  showed  the  first  signs  of  excite- 
189 


A  MOTLEY 

ment.     'I  give  you,'  he  responded,  'the  whip- 
ping of  all  high-falutin'  upstarts!' 

"  'Good!'    replied  the  other;    'I  drink  that 
too!' \  It   again   became    necessary   to   upset 
something — a  glass   this   time.     Presently   we 
tumbled  somehow  on  the  subject  of  the  Sagas. 
Gentlemen,  the  Sagas  were  deep  in  the  affec- 
tions of  both  those  fellows;   and  nothing  could 
have  better  roused  their  hostility  to  boiling- 
point  than  this  common  affection.     You  could  - 
see  it  by  their  faces.    To  the  one  a  Saga  was; 
the  quintessence  of  sport,  of  manly  valour,  and 
aristocratic  tyranny:    to  the  other  something 
lawless  and  beautiful,   freedom  in  a  mist  of 
primitive  emotions,   a  will-o'-the-wisp  hover-  I 
ing  ove  •  bogs,  a  draught  of  blood  and  wine. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  two  men  discussing 
a  picture,  a  book,  a  person,  which  one  loves 
and  the  other  hates?  What  happens?  In- 
difference or  mutual  contempt — nothing  more. 
But  let  them  chance  on  that  which  each  loves; 
then  you  may  cry  'havoc!' 

"We  left  our  chairs,  and  stood  about,  and 
in  the  moonlight  those  creatures  talked.    First 
one  went  to  the  table  and  drained  his  glass, 
190 


A  REVERSION  TO  TYPE 

then  the  other.  Their  words  were  as  bitter 
as  bitter,  they  kept  closing  and  hastily  recoil- 
ing. They  were  like  two  men  defending  the 
honour  of  some  woman  who  belonged  to  both 
of  them — a  priceless  possession,  which  neither 
would  abandon  to  the  otherA  So,  in  the  age  of 
"  Sagas,  a  forbear  of  the  one,  'some  wild  heath- 
man,  may  have  hewn  a  lord  in  sunder;  or,  in 
a  foray,  the  other's  ancestor  trodden  into  the 
earth  a  turbulent  churl.  It  was  being  done 
over  again  that  evening — with  words — by  two 

lights  of  our  high  civilisation.     B w^nt  to 

Asleep.     I  woke  him,  an|l  we  left  them  disput-  , 
ing  in  the  moonlight. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,  I  come  to  the  divert- 
ing part  of  my  story.  It  may  have  been  a 
quarter,  it  may  have  been  half  an  hour  after 

B and  I  had  retired,  when  the  landlord 

came  to  call  us. 

"  There,  in  a  pool  of  moonlight,  shadows, 
blood,  and  wine,  they  lay — they  had  carved 
each  other  up  with  the  boar-spears. 

"The    Classicist    was   quite    dead,    with    a 
sneer  on  his  face;  the  Emotionalist  still  lived, 
with  a  gash  right  through  his  chest.    There 
191 


A  MOTLEY 

was  nothing  to  be  learnt  from  him,  however; 
before  his  death  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  me.  I 
bent,  thinking  to  hear  words  of  remote  or 
terror.  But  all  he  said  was: 

"•  'The  snob!'  and  died. 

"They  took  alarm  at  the  inn  and  wanted  to 
smother  it  up.  They  called  it  fever.  Well, 
gentlemen,  so  it  was:  the  ineradicable  fever 
of  type.  A  good  many  years  ago.  You  must 
have  seen  it  in  the  papers.  .  .  ." 

The  sallow  man  was  silent. 

1901. 


192 


A  WOMAN 

\  TRAVELLER  was  writing  to  his  friend: 
/jL  .  .  .  "We  were  sitting  on  the  stoep. 
Above  the  pines  the  long  line  of  Table  Moun- 
tain was  like  a  violet  shadow  two  shades  deeper 
than  the  sky.  We  had  no  light  except  the 
'Cross/  and  a  swarm  of  other  stars;  it  was  a 
rare  night,  dark  crystal. 

"There  had  been  a  dance,  and  the  girls  had 
gone  to  bed;  all  the  shutters  were  closed,  the 
old  house  against  our  backs  looked  very  silent, 
and  flat,  and  long.  Only  the  door  was  open, 
and  we  sat  round  it.  The  sparks  from  our 
pipes  writhed  about  in  the  air,  or,  falling  on  to 
the  stoep  expired  like  the  words  dropping  from 
our  mouths.  You  know  the  kind  of  talk.  In 
the  morning  we  had  played  cricket  amongst 
the  trees — a  hit  into  the  vineyards,  'five  and 
out' — girls  and  all.  In  the  afternoon  we  had 
played  tennis,  on  a  half-made  court — the  girls 
too.  In  the  evening  we  had  danced.  Some 
193 


A  MOTLEY 

had  hitched  up,  and  departed.  Some  had 
gone  to  bed.  We  four  were  left,  and  old  Juno, 
the  pointer,  with  her  head  on  her  paws,  and 
her  nose  wrinkling  at  the  squeaking  of  some 
tiny  beast  in  the  darkness.  Little  Byng,  with 
his  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  was  sitting  quite 
square  above  his  parted  legs;  round-faced 
little  man,  no  neck  to  speak  of,  straw-coloured 
hair,  and  eyes  without  lashes,  just  like  a  dis- 
sipated egg.  You  know  him,  Billy  Byng, 
best-hearted  little  man,  they  say,  in  Cape 
Colony.  Young  Sanley — married  to  one  of 
the  Detwell  girls,  sleeping  a  healthy  sleep 
already  indoors — such  a  neat,  smooth  chap; 
great  Scott!  yes,  and  how  commonplace!  with 
his  pale  moustache,  and  his  high  white  fore- 
head, and  his  slim  nose,  and  his  well-cut 
clothes,  and  his  tidy  made-up  tie.  And  our 
host — you  know  him;  a  little  too  alert,  a  little 
too  dark,  a  little  too  everything,  but  a  right 
good  fellow;  engaged  to  the  other  Detwell 
girl,  who  was  perhaps  thinking  of  him,  and 
perhaps  wasn't,  in  her  bed  just  over  our  heads. 
Well,  we  were  talking;  profaning  things  a  bit; 
not  much,  you  know,  couldn't  lay  claim  to 
194 


A  WOMAN 

original  profanity;  just  tarbrushing  the  sur- 
face. We  were  all  a  bit  bored,  rather  sleepy, 
and  accordingly,  just  a  little  too  jovial.  Even 
Juno,  who's  at  least  as  wise  as  any  human, 
was  pondering  somewhat  gloomily  over  her 
master's  intention  of  taking  us  to  shoot  pheas- 
ants at  daybreak — *  before  it  was  too  hot.' 
We  had  been  there  before;  we  knew  it — that 
pheasant  shooting,  up  stony  slopes  in  a  tangle 
of  cover,  with  the  chance  of  a  couple  of  shots, 
at  most,  producing  one  disembowelled  bird. 
Every  now  and  then  one  of  us  would  get  up, 
walk  to  the  edge  of  the  stoep,  stare  into  the 
dark  vineyard,  stretch  as  if  he  were  going  to 
make  a  move,  and  after  all  yield  to  our  host's: 
'Just  one  more,  boys!' 

"All  of  a  sudden  young  Sanley  murmured: 

"  'I  heard  footsteps.' 

"  'Some  nigger,'  said  our  host. 

"And  then  at  the  far  end  of  the  stoep  a 
woman  appeared,  walked  straight  into  our 
midst,  and  sat  down.  It  was  pretty  startling, 
and  absurd.  Little  Byng  seemed  absolutely 
transfixed,  he  blinked  his  lashless  eyes,  and 
seemed  to  twitch  all  over  his  face.  San- 
195 


A  MOTLEY 

ley  got  very  pale  and  nervously  tapped  the 
table.  Our  host  alone  kept  the  use  of  his 
tongue. 

"  'Corrie!'  he  said. 

"  'Why  not?    Give  me  a  drink,  Jack  Allen/ 

"Our  host  in  a  kind  of  surreptitious  way, 
poured  brandy  into  a  glass  and  added  seltzer. 

"The  woman  held  out  her  hand  for  it,  and 
as  she  tilted  her  chin  to  drink,  the  cloak  fell 
from  her  shoulders,  and  we  could  see  her  neck 
and  arms  gleaming,  out  of  her  evening  dress. 

"'Thanks!7  she  said;  'I  wanted  that.' 
Then  she  bent  over  the  table  and  leaned  her 
face  on  her  hand.  Well,  no  one  spoke,  and  we 
all  cast  secret  looks  back  at  the  house.  Sanley 
reached  out  his  hand  quietly  and  drew  the 
door  to. 

"The  woman  said: 

"  'I  saw  the  bowls  of  your  pipes,  and  heard 
your  voices.  You're  not  too  lively  now.' 

"Her  voice  wasn't  loud;  but  it  sounded 
wilfully  coarsened.  Her  lips  were  slightly 
parted  above  her  forefinger  crooked  across  her 
chin.  Her  nostrils  seemed  to  broaden  as  she 
looked  at  us,  in  a  sort  of  distrustful  way.  She 
196 


A  WOMAN 

wore  no  hat,  and  her  hair  was  like  a  little  black 
patch  of  the  night  over  her  brow.  Her  eyes; 
how  can  I  describe  them?  They  seemed  to 
see  everything,  and  to  see  nothing.  They  were 
so  intent,  and  mournful,  and  defiant;  hard,  if 
you  like,  tragic,  too.  I  remembered,  now,  where 
I  had  met  her — though  I  hadn't  been  ten  days 
in  the  Colony — at  the  supper  party  of  a  man 
called  Brown,  after  the  theatre;  very  vulgar 
and  noisy. 

"The  most  notorious  woman  in  Cape  Town! 
Her  house  had  been  pointed  out  to  me,  too, 
just  at  the  corner  of  the  Malay  quarter;  a 
little  house,  painted  mauve,  with  large,  red 
flowers  starring  its  front. 

"The  most  notorious  woman  in  Cape  Town! 
I  looked  at  our  host.  He  was  biting  his  fingers. 
At  Byng.  His  mouth  was  a  little  open,  as  if 
he  were  about  to  make  a  very  sage  remark. 
Sanley  struck  me  as  looking  altogether  too 
pitiably  decent. 

"Our  host  broke  the  silence. 

"  'How?    Where?    Eh!    What?' 

"  'Staying  down  there  at  Charlie  Lennard's; 
what  a  beast!    Oh!  what  a  beast!' 
197 


A  MOTLEY 

"Her  eyes  rested,  wistfully  it  seemed  to  me, 
on  each  of  us  in  turn. 

"  'It's  a  beautiful  night,  isn't  it?'   she  said. 

"Little  Byng  kicked  out  his  foot,  as  if  he 
would  have  sent  something  sprawling,  and 
began  stuttering  out: 

"  'I  beg  pardon — I  beg  pardon.'  I  saw 
the  old  pointer  thrust  her  nose  against  the 
woman's  knees.  Something  moved,  back  in 
the  house;  we  all  looked  round  with  a  start. 
Then  the  woman  began  to  laugh,  almost 
noiselessly,  as  though  she  had  an  unholy 
understanding  of  our  minds,  as  if  she  would 
never  leave  off.  I  saw  Sanley  tear  at  his  hair, 
and  stealthily  smooth  it  down  again.  Our 
host  frowned  horribly,  and  thrust  his  hands 
so  deep  into  his  pockets,  that  it  seemed  to  me 
they  must  go  through  the  linings.  Little  Byng 
almost  bounded  up  and  down  in  his  chair. 
Then  just  as  suddenly,  the  woman  stopped 
laughing;  there  was  dead  silence.  You  could 
only  hear  the  squeaking  of  the  tiny  beast. 
At  last  the  woman  said: 

"  'Doesn't  it  smell  good  to-night;  it's  quiet, 
too.  .  .  .  Here!  let  me  have  another  drink!' 
198 


A  WOMAN 

She  took  the  glass  our  host  held  out:  'Your 
very  good  health/  she  said,  'my  respectable 
friends!' 

"Our  host  suddenly  resumed  his  seat,  crossed 
his  arms  and  sighed.  A  pitiful  little  noise  he 
made  of  it. 

"  'I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you/  she  said,  'I 
wouldn't  hurt  a  fly  to-night — It  smells  like 
home.  Look!'  She  held  out  the  edge  of  her 
skirts  to  us.  'Dew!  I'm  dripping;  isn't  it 
sweet?' 

"Her  voice  had  lost  all  coarseness — it  might 
have  been  your  mother  or  sister  speaking; 
it  was  ever  so  queer,  and  little  Byng  sputtered 
out:  'Too  bad!  too  bad!7  but  whether  to 
her,  or  of  her,  or  to  us — no  one  knew. 

"  'I've  walked  miles  to-night/  she  said. 
'Haven't  had  such  a  walk  since  I  was  a  girl.' 
There  was  a  kind  of  tone  in  her  voice  that  hurt 
me  horribly;  and  suddenly  young  Sanley  rose. 

"  'Excuse  me,  Allen!'  he  stammered:  'it's 
very  late.  Going  to  turn  in?'  I  caught  the 
gleam  of  his  eyes  on  the  woman. 

"  'Oh!  are  you  going?'  she  said.  There 
was  a  sort  of  regret,  a  sort  of  something  inno- 
199 


A  MOTLEY 

cent  and  unconscious  in  her  voice,  that  seemed 
regularly  to  pierce  a  bag  of  venom  in  that 
smooth  young  man. 

"  'Madam,  I  am.  May  I  ask  why  you  came 

here?  My  wife '  He  stopped,  groped  for 

the  door,  pulled  it  open,  smiled  his  mean  tidy 
smile  and  vanished. 

"The  woman  had  risen,  and  she  gave  a  sort 
of  laugh. 

"  'His  wife!  Oh!  Well,  I  wish  her  happi- 
ness. Ah!  my  God!  I  do  wish  her  happiness 
— I  do;  and  yours,  Jack  Allen;  and  yours,  if 
you  have  one.  Billy  Byng,  you  remember  me 
— you  remember  when  I  first — to-night,  I 

thought — I  thought '  She  hid  her  face. 

One  by  one  we  slunk  off  the  stoep,  and  left  her, 
sobbing  her  heart  out  before  the  house. 

"God  knows  what  she  was  thinking  of! 
God  knows  what  sort  of  things  lurk  round  us, 
and  leap  out — thank  Heaven!  not  often — 
from  the  darkness,  as  that  did! 

"I  crept  back  later  to  the  edge  of  the  vine- 
yard. 

"There  she  was  still,  and,  beside  her,  little 
Byng,  with  his  toes  turned  out,  bending  over 
200 


A  WOMAN 

her  fingers.  Then  I  saw  him  draw  them  under 
his  arm;  pat  them  with  his  other  hand  and 
gazing  up  at  the  sky,  lead  her  gently  out  into 
the  darkness."  .  . 

1900. 


201 


THE  " CODGER" 

IF  ever  there  were  a  personality  in  petti- 
coats, this  was  he.  His  petticoats  were 
nine  inches  long,  but  what  he  lacked  in  petti- 
coats he  made  up  in  personality.  On  board 
the  ship  he  was  known  by  the  name  of  the 
"Codger."  'Why?  Man  does  not  know — un- 
less that  he  walked  very  wide  behind,  had  a 
bunchy  appearance,  and  an  air  of  pugnac- 
ity. His  name  was  Ferdinand,  but  his  par- 
ents called  him  "baby";  and  we  called  him 
the  "Codger." 

We  sailed  westwards  two  months  to  the 
Cape;  for  the  most  part  we  made  fair  weather, 
and  in  fair  weather  he  was  let  loose  upon  the 
deck,  to  stagger  by,  or  stand  between  one's 
legs.  You  looked  him  over,  he  looked  you 
over  in  return,  and  it  was  certain  that  his 
estimate  was  no  more  flattering  than  your 
own;  you  could  not  get  the  better  of  the 
"Codger." 

203 


A  MOTLEY 

Instead  of  gambling  on  the  ship's  run,  it 
was  the  daily  custom  to  gamble  on  how  many 
times  he  would  cry  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
The  lowest  ticket  was  numbered  ten,  and  the 
highest  forty.  One  hot,  calm  day,  when  there 
was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do,  the  number 
thirty-seven  won;  in  rough  weather,  low 
numbers  took  the  prize — he  liked  watching 
the  big  waves,  and  lived  contentedly  in  the 
scuppers,  into  which  he  continually  rolled. 
He  refused  to  weep  when  he  was  hurt;  he 
wept  from  temper,  or  a  sense  of  his  own  im- 
portance. He  was  a  "fine"  boy,  and  cele- 
brated his  third  birthday  during  the  voyage. 
Old  "Andy,"  the  sailmaker,  was  prepared  to 
wager  that  he  would  "whip"  his  brother 
Freddie,  who  was  rising  five. 

He  did  not  talk  much,  the  "Codger,"  he 
kept  his  lungs  for  other  things;  nor  was  he, 
as  far  as  we  could  see,  "a  beggar  to  think"; 
but  we  were  proud  of  him,  hungering  to  match 
him  against  any  child  of  his  age  and  weight, 
if  such  an  one  could  be  found. 

If  a  person  looked  at  him,  to  take  stock,  at 
the  top  he  discovered  a  stiff  mop  of  golden- 
204 


THE  "CODGER" 

brown  curls  like  a  number  of  small,  fat  cork- 
screws, a  broad  forehead  ornamented  with 
tumblebumps,  a  pair  of  defiant  grey  eyes, 
stout,  rosy  cheeks,  a  snub  nose,  a  genially 
thick,  red  mouth — wide  open,  some  teeth,  a 
double  chin,  plenty  of  freckles,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  devil-may-care  resentment;  below,  he 
found  a  bundle,  blue  or  holland-coloured,  and 
a  pair  of  fat  and  well-scarred  legs.  I  never  saw 
him  afraid  of  anything;  I  never  saw  him  do- 
cile; his  mother  doted  on  him,  while  he  led  his 
father,  a  small  man,  the  life  of  a  dog;  he  was 
frequently  chastised,  with  as  much  effect  as 
if  one  had  chastised  a  leg  of  mutton.  On 
occasions  that  surpassed  he  was  handed  over  to 
the  grey-whiskered,  thick-lipped  Captain,  and 
smacked  in  solemn  conclave,  from  which  or- 
deal he  would  emerge  rather  sore,  but  a  greater 
personality  than  ever.  He  rarely  kept  his 
feet  for  more  than  two  minutes  at  a  time,  and 
he  would  bang  with  his  fists  the  deck  or  any- 
thing that  tripped  him  up.  Indeed,  when  he 
was  not  pleased,  he  was  a  terror.  In  common 
with  the  other  children  he  took  his  meals  with 
us  at  the  long  dining-table  that  stretched  down 
205 


A  MOTLEY 

the  centre  of  the  saloon  like  a  multiplied  iron- 
ing board.  And  a  fine,  free  feeder  he  was! 
What  did  not  go  into  his  mouth  went  over  his 
shoulder  or  into  his  neighbour's  lap.  He  sat 
between  his  nurse,  an  acidulated,  red-haired 
person,  and  the  second  mate,  the  only  being 
he  respected.  It  was  indeed  quite  remarkable 
to  see  the  influence  that  fellow  had  over  the 
"Codger";  there  was  nothing  he  could  not  do 
with  him.  The  "Codger"  knew  that  he  too 
had  been  a  "Codger"  in  his  time,  they  were 
doubtless  hall-marked  to  each  other  like  free- 
masons. Yes,  the  second  mate  was  Emperor 
of  the  "Codger";  he  could  even  induce  him  to 
eat  sago  pudding,  beyond  which  man's  power 
cannot  go.  This  second  mate  was  bluff  and 
young,  with  a  ruddy  face,  and  a  fair  moustache; 
and  he  would  sit  silent,  next  to  the  "Codger," 
grave  as  a  judge,  and,  when  the  latter  went 
astray,  tap  him  on  the  head  with  a  dessert 
spoon.  It  was,  then,  instructive  to  watch  the 
"Codger,"  brought  up  all  standing,  gaze  with 
an  expression  of  resigned  astonishment  at  the 
third  brass  button  on  the  mate's  coat.  There 
was  much  quiet  fun  at  that  end  of  the  table. 
206 


THE  "CODGER" 

But  we  never  considered  that  the  " Codger" 
truckled  to  the  second  mate;  if  he  crawled 
about  after  him  on  his  hands  and  knees,  it  was 
merely  felt  that  it  gave  tone  to  the  second  mate, 
making  him  one  man  in  a  ship's  company; 
so  that  we  became  proud  of  him. 

One  day,  coming  on  deck,  I  saw  the  bare- 
legged "Codger,"  a  stout  wisp  of  holland 
clothes,  swimming,  as  it  seemed,  up  the  mizen- 
rigging.  Below  him  the  second  mate,  with  his 
hand  twisted  securely  in  the  middle  of  the  wisp, 
mounted,  slowly,  steadily.  The  "Codger"  was 
crowing,  the  second  mate  smiling,  and  down 
below  stood  the  acidulated  nurse. 

We  owed  many  things  to  the  "Codger"; 
he  was  a  medium  for  speculation,  a  thing  to 
argue  about,  the  whetstone  of  our  tongues, 
the  source  of  groans,  a  cause  for  laughter;  in 
calm  or  in  storm,  running  free,  or  while  sails 
flapped,  his  personality  was  immovable,  a 
thing  of  specific  gravity,  a  little  bit  of  ballast. 
To  this  day  I  remember  how,  in  the  tail  of 
a  cyclone  round  the  "Leeuwin,"  when  the  ship 
was  groaning,  one's  cabin  chaos,  one's  heart  in 
one's  boots,  the  sound,  surmounting  the  gale, 
207 


A  MOTLEY 

of  the  "Codger"  being  smacked  in  the  next 
cabin  came  and  soothed  one  with  a  sense  of 
home  and  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  .  .  . 

He  must  be  grown  up  now,  pursuing  some 
path  of  life  open  to  "  codgers "  in  commerce, 
Church  or  State,  and  radiating  that  atmosphere 
of  calm  insuperable  "tuskiness"  peculiar  to 
his  breed. 

In  any  walk  abroad  he  may  be  seen,  on  any 
journey,  in  almost  every  office,  on  some  Benches, 
in  many  pulpits,  drays,  and  ships — with  his 
teeth  bared  as  it  were  for  the  seizing  of  the 
next  matter  in  hand;  very  stolid,  cheerful, 
ready  to  bite,  and  seldom  biting;  with  his 
hair  a  little  rumpled,  a  slight  roll  in  his  gait, 
and  his  full  grey  eye  staring  you  out  of  coun- 
tenance. Jolly  companion,  hearty  friend,  good 
slow  enemy  and  fighter,  quite  incapable  of 
seeing  the  thumbs  of  the  spectators  turned 
down  on  him;  or  of  understanding  how  he 
can  possibly  be  subject-matter  for  a  smile. 

One  of  the  old  breed,  almost  Dutch;  find- 
ing his  facts  as  large  as  life,  and  hating  an 
idea  like  poison. 

Long  may  he  roll  with  us  in  the  old  barque 
208 


THE  "CODGER" 

on  the  great  voyage  over  the  green  seas  of 
history.  For  while  we  have  him,  Fate  will 
never  enter  us  at  Lloyd's:  "Lost,"  for  fear 
that  he  should  rise  from  the  waves,  and  star- 
ing at  Her  fixedly  with  his  blue  eye,  call  Her 
liar;  being  damp  and  angry,  and  having  re- 
fused to  see  that  he  was  drowned. 

1900. 


209 


FOR  EVER 

THERE  came  the  sound  of  singing  from 
the  forepart  of  the  emigrant  train,  of 
patriotic  songs  in  half-drunken  voices.  The 
guards  consulted  their  watches;  the  great  Pad- 
dington  clock  recorded  fourteen  minutes  of  a 
new  day. 

The  carpenter  looked  at  me. 

"It'sh  too  bad  of  them,"  he  said. 

The  hand  of  the  clock  crept  towards  the 
quarter,  the  guards  began  closing  the  doors, 
the  carpenter  climbed  back  into  his  carriage; 
his  pale,  round  face  wore  a  very  blank  and 
dismal  look. 

"I'll  'ave  to  go  alone,  it  seems,"  he  said. 

Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  the  long  platform, 
a  little  crowd  of  men  and  women  appeared, 
running.  The  soldier  first,  then  Henry  Augus- 
tus, very  white  and  out  of  breath;  they  scram- 
bled in  as  the  train  began  to  move. 

"All    along,"    said    Henry    Augustus,    "o' 
what  we  calls  a  glass  o'  trouble,  sir." 
211 


A  MOTLEY 

The  train  gathered  speed;  the  waving  caps 
of  the  soldiers'  pals,  the  face  of  Henry  Augus- 
tus's wife,  the  red  hat  of  her  woman  friend, 
faded  from  our  gaze.  The  carpenter  did  not 
look  back — he  had  no  one  to  look  back  for. 

When,  after  that  night  in  the  train,  I  went 
to  look  a^b  the  three  "out  o'  works"  at  Chester 
Station,  they  were  already  sitting  up;  the 
soldier  and  the  carpenter  back  to  the  engine, 
Henry  Augustus  opposite,  perfuming  the  air 
with  his  clay  pipe.  The  soldier  pointed  to 
the  carpenter,  and  said  with  a  cheerful  smile: 
"All  right,  sir,  our  friend's  been  lookin'  after 
us." 

The  carpenter  smiled  weakly;  an  odour  of 
whisky  was  wafted  from  him. 

"I  been  blowin'  the  fog-horn  of  the  steamer 
all  night,"  said  Henry  Augustus;  his  eyes, 
with  the  little  red  rings  round  the  edges  of  the 
iris,  looked  quite  dead  in  the  early  light;  his 
fish- white  face  was  contorted  in  a  grin;  he 
pointed  his  pipe  at  the  carriage  window: 
"Wot  price  Canada,  now?" 

It  had  been  bitterly  cold  that  night;  the 
snow  was  drifted  thick  and  soft  into  the  hollows 
212 


FOR  EVER 

along  the  line;  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses  at 
Port  Sunlight  it  was  like  white  thatching  with 
blunted  ends;  there  was  the  hush,  too,  in  the 
air  that  comes  only  with  heavy  snow;  and 
above  it  all  a  wonderful,  thick,  soft,  icy  sky, 
torn  into  opal  shreds  by  the  sun. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  had  run  into  Birken- 
head,  and  were  filing  down  to  the  ferry  amongst 
the  crowd  of  quiet  emigrants.  The  carpenter 
in  his  long  coat,  carrying  a  brown  rug  and  his 
straw  tool-bag,  sewn  up  with  string,  walked 
in  front  with  a  solemn  air,  as  though  his  legs 
had  been  tied  on  to  his  somewhat  protruding 
stomach,  and  he  knew  that  he  must  move 
them  carefully.  He  stared  ahead  with  round, 
blue  eyes,  above  his  flabby  cheeks,  exhaling  at 
every  step  the  perfume  of  his  night's  debauch. 
By  my  side  came  the  soldier,  thrusting  his  face 
a  little  forward,  prematurely  grizzled,  high- 
coloured,  high-cheekboned,  with  eyes  that 
from  staring  at  great  spaces  and  at  death  had 
acquired  a  peculiar  glittering  light.  Behind, 
his  lips  raised  jeeringly  above  his  blackened 
teeth,  with  his  coat  unbuttoned  and  his  tie 
screwed  round  under  the  flap  collar  of  his 
213 


A  MOTLEY 

flannel  shirt,  lurched  Henry  Augustus,  at  his 
care-for-nobody  gait. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  on  the  grey, 
gleaming  water,  was  the  bulky  one-funnelled 
steamer,  with  shreds  of  the  night's  snow-wrap 
still  clinging  to  her. 

Articulating  his  words  with  difficulty,  the 
carpenter  spoke: 

"Well,  she'll  'ave  us  in  an  hour  or  two." 

We  turned  to  look  at  the  inanimate  monster 
so  soon  to  swallow  up  those  hundreds  on  hun- 
dreds of  men;  and,  from  behind,  the  voice  of 
Henry  Augustus  added: 

"It's  to  be  'oped  we'll  never  'ave  to  be 
brought  'ome  again." 

We  crossed  the  river  and  set  off  into  the 
town  for  breakfast,  the  carpenter  and  I  in  front. 

"It  all  seems  like  a  dream  to  me,"  he  said; 
and  the  odour  of  his  whisky  enveloped  me  like 
a  blessing.  The  door,  the  passage,  the  stair- 
case, the  one  small  dining-room  of  the  little 
hotel  were  all  crowded  with  emigrants;  bearded 
men,  boys,  women,  babies,  sitting  round  the 
one  long  table,  or  leaning  against  the  walls, 
waiting  for  their  turns. 
214 


FOR  EVER 

A  spectacled  woman  of  middle  age,  with  an 
absent  expression  and  infrequent  smiles,  was 
pouring  tea  out  of  a  huge  tin  can  into  coarse, 
round  cups;  she  gave  orders  in  a  sour  voice 
to  two  small,  red-cheeked  slaveys,  who  bore  up 
and  down  plates  of  eggs  and  bacon.  Neither 
round  the  long  table  nor  in  the  passage  nor 
on  the  stairs  was  there  any  sound  of  talking. 
An  uncanny  patience,  a  long  strange  silence 
brooded  over  all;  the  loud  crying  of  a  baby, 
the  continual  rattle  of  the  plates  alone  broke 
that  silence.  There  was  no  room  for  us  all  to 
sit  together,  but  Henry  Augustus  and  I  found 
places  side  by  side.  We  were  served  with 
plates  of  eggs  and  bacon,  slices  of  stale  bread, 
cuts  of  pallid  butter,  cups  of  washy  tea.  Henry 
Augustus  took  knife  and  fork,  set  them  akim- 
bo to  his  plate,  poured  half  the  contents  of  a 
vinegar  bottle  over  his  eggs,  for  a  long  time 
neither  ate  nor  spake,  then  suddenly  began: 

"I'm  a-going  to  do  what  I  can  out  there; 
and  if  I  get  on  I'm  goin'  to  send  you  such  a 
letter  as'll  open  your  eyes  a  bit.  You  don't 
know  my  character — I've  got  a  bad  name,  but 
a  lot  o'  the  black  that's  on  me's  a-comin'  off." 
215 


A  MOTLEY 

He  breathed  hard;  and  his  breath,  that  smelt 
like  the  breath  of  a  furnace,  smoked  in  little 
puffs  from  his  mouth,  as  though  in  truth  there 
were  a  fire  alight  within  him;  then  slowly  he 
began  to  eat. 

"No,  sir,"  he  repeated  in  a  surlier  voice, 
"you  don't  know  me.  I  never  turned  my 
back  on  a  chance  yet.  I'm  a-goin'  for  ever/' 
he  gave  me  a  strange,  slow  look  out  of  his 
dead  eyes. 

The  carpenter  came  up.  "We  can't  get  a 
smell  of  anything  over  there,"  he  said  queru- 
lously. The  spectacled  woman  turned  on  him 
at  once:  "Your  turn'll  come  in  a  minute." 
The  carpenter  went  meekly  back  to  his  seat, 
fixing  his  eyes  before  him  and  manoeuvring  his 
legs  with  care.  The  baby  that  had  been  shaken 
into  silence  again  began  to  cry.  A  boy  in  a 
half-bred  livery,  with  a  Pompeian  face,  came 
in  suddenly  and  announced  that  the  "break" 
for  the  landing-stage  was  at  the  door. 

Some  of  the  emigrants  got  up;  their  places 
were  at  once  taken  by  others. 

"I'm  a  man  that  mixes  with  men,"  began 
Henry  Augustus  again,  slowly  masticating  ba- 
216 


FOR  EVER 

con,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  plate;  "but  I've 
brought  up  my  children  to  answer  to  that," 
he  held  up  his  black-nailed  finger.  "I'm  re- 
spected as  a  father  all  through  Notting  Dale, 
I  am.  An'  all  what  my  wife'll  tell  you  about 
black  eyes  and  cut  throats,  well— my  letter'll 
throw  another  light  on  that."  He  made  a 
movement  of  the  fork  in  his  hand,  and  looked 
at  me,  as  though  with  those  words  he  had  re- 
lieved his  soul.  "They'll  'ave  to  bring  me  back 
dead  if  they  wants  to;  I'm  a-goin'  for  ever,  and 
I  'ope  where  I'm  goin'  I'll  get  more  to  eat  than 
wot  I've  been  gettin'  'ere."  He  grinned,  and 
in  a  lighter  vein  began  to  tell  me  of  occasions 
on  which  he  had  been  bolder  than  other  men. 
On  the  far  side  of  the  room  the  carpenter  and 
soldier  were  devouring  their  breakfast  at  a 
tremendous  rate. 

The  Pompeian  boy  returned.  "Any  more 
for  the  ' break'?"  he  said  in  his  squeaky  voice. 
We  four  went  out  and  took  the  last  three 
places.  The  carpenter  was  obliged  to  stand, 
holding  to  the  roof.  A  little  town  urchin  ran 
along  behind,  bare-footed,  through  the  snow. 
Henry  Augustus  jerked  his  thumb:  "A  pair  o' 
217 


A  MOTLEY 

boots  wouldn't  come  amiss  to  ?im,"  he  said; 
and  all  the  drive  he  went  on  cracking  jokes  in  a 
thick  voice,  but  no  one  else  joined  in. 

The  tender  put  off  just  as  we  arrived,  and, 
standing  in  the  slush  at  the  edge  of  the  shelter- 
shed,  we  waited  a  long  time  for  her  return. 
The  sun  was  shining;  along  the  riverside  small 
boats  were  outlined  white  in  thick  bright  snow, 
and  every  now  and  then  a  gull  swooped  out  of 
the  icy  sky  and  swept  alone  above  the  wide 
grey  river. 

The  knots  of  emigrants  kept  multiplying 
round  us.  There  was  no  animation,  no  hurry, 
no  eagerness,  no  grief.  A  strange  long  patience 
was  on  them  all.  One  man  alone,  a  bearded 
Irishman,  seemed  to  have  a  grievance,  which 
he  vented  from  time  to  time  in  a  hard,  creaking 
voice.  Close  to  us  a  grey-haired  father  stood 
quite  silent  beside  his  stolid,  insensible,  red- 
cheeked  boy.  Behind  them  a  family  were 
gathered  in  a  little  circle  round  a  young  woman 
with  a  baby;  and  seated  under  the  shed  two 
comely,  black-eyed  girls,  in  patched  black 
skirts,  with  their  mittened  hands  in  their  laps, 
were  staring  sulkily  before  them. 
218 


FOR  EVER 

The  carpenter  began  asking  us  conundrums. 
The  soldier  said  with  a  laugh,  "  You  don't  seem 
very  low!"  The  carpenter  answered,  "Must 
'ave  something  to  keep  our  spirits  up."  Henry 
Augustus  joined  in;  he  knew  as  many  conun- 
drums as  the  carpenter,  but  the  carpenter's 
were  of  better  quality.  The  soldier  remained 
silent,  turning  his  eyes  from  side  to  side;  the 
expression  on  his  face  was  that  of  a  man  whose 
thoughts  are  far  away;  he  stood  a  little  apart, 
only  now  and  then  joining  in  our  laughter. 

"And  what's  mortar  do  between  bricks?" 
asked  the  carpenter. 

"Sticks  'em  together,"  replied  Henry  Au- 
gustus. 

"Wrong,"  said  the  carpenter;  "keeps  'em 
apart!" 

Out  on  the  water  puffs  of  steam  wreathed 
out  along  the  ship's  side;  the  tender  was  start- 
ing back  towards  us.  The  crowd  of  emigrants 
thickened,  but  still  there  was  neither  hurry, 
eagerness,  nor  grief;  only  two  youths,  close  to  us 
on  the  right,  began  to  chaff  each  other  coarsely. 

The    grey-haired    father   said   to   his   boy: 
"Take  your  place,  Jo." 
219 


A  MOTLEY 

Faster  came  the  carpenter's  conundrums, 
as  though  he  were  pouring  forth  his  swan 
song  before  for  ever  being  dumb.  Faster  came 
Henry  Augustus's  thick  retorts.  The  soldier's 
eyes  turned  faster  from  side  to  side,  but  still 
they  seemed  to  look  at  nothing.  They  saw, 
perhaps,  four  small  children  in  Industrial 
Schools,  and  a  wife  who  was  "on  the  streets." 
They  saw  that  London  which  he  had  scoured 
for  work,  its  lights  flaring  on  the  open  stalls, 
its  long  close  rows  of  houses  shut  against  him, 
its  parks  where  he  had  flung  him  down  to  rest. 
And  yet  from  side  to  side  the  eyes  turned  as 
though  greedy  of  this  last  look  before  for  ever 
they  lost  sight.  A  fine  sleet  had  begun  to  fall. 

Suddenly  Henry  Augustus  said  in  his  jeering 
voice:  "  'Ere  she  comes." 

The   carpenter   gazed   at   me   and   smiled; 
there  was  moisture  hi  his  eyes,  and  behind 
that  moisture  the  very  soul  of  him  seemed  to 
be  looking  forth.    The  soldier  caught  my  hand 
in  a  feverish  grip.     Henry  Augustus  glanced 
slowly  round  with  his  dead-fish  eyes.    "Leavin' 
old  England,  for  ever,"  he  said. 
» There  was  a  minute  for  hurried  handshakes, 
220 


FOR  EVER 

then  one  behind  the  other  they  took  their 
places.  So  closely  packed,  so  many  hundreds, 
so  silent — long  were  they  passing  the  ticket 
inspector  on  the  plank.  No  hurry,  no  eager- 
ness, no  animation,  no  grief;  the  long  strange 
patience  on  them  all. 

The  tender  whistled,  and,  one  by  one,  those 
hundreds  of  faces  turned  in  the  sunlight  and 
the  sleet  towards  the  shore.  No  joy,  no  grief, 
no  cry,  no  cheer;  in  that  weird  silence  they 
slipped  away. 

1906. 


221 


THE  CONSUMMATION 

ABOUT  1889  there  lived  in  London  a  man 
named  Harrison,  of  an  amiable  and  per- 
verse disposition.  One  morning,  at  Charing 
Cross  Station,  a  lady  in  whom  he  was  inter- 
ested said  to  him: 

"But  Mr.  Harrison,  why  don't  you  write? 
You  are  just  the  person!" 

Harrison  saw  that  he  was,  and  at  the  end  of 
two  years  had  produced  eleven  short  stories, 
with  two  of  which  he  was  not  particularly 
pleased,  but  as  he  naturally  did  not  like  to 
waste  them,  he  put  them  with  the  others  and 
sent  them  all  to  a  publisher.  In  the  course  of 
time  he  received  from  the  publisher  a  letter 
saying  that  for  a  certain  consideration  or  com- 
mission he  would  be  prepared  to  undertake 
the  risk  of  publishing  these  stories  upon  Har- 
rison's incurring  all  the  expenses.  This  pleased 
Harrison  who,  feeling  that  no  time  should  be 
wasted  in  making  his  "work"  public,  wrote 
223 


A  MOTLEY 

desiring  the  publisher  to  put  the  matter  in 
hand.  The  publisher  replied  to  this  with  an 
estimate  and  an  agreement,  to  which  Harrison 
responded  with  a  cheque.  The  publisher  an- 
swered at  once  with  a  polite  letter,  suggesting 
that  for  Harrison's  advantage  a  certain  addi- 
tional sum  should  be  spent  on  advertisements. 
Harrison  saw  the  point  of  this  directly,  and 
replied  with  another  cheque — knowing  that 
between  gentlemen  there  could  be  no  question 
of  money. 

In  due  time  the  book  appeared.  It  was 
called  "In  the  Track  of  the  Stars,"  by  Cuth- 
bert  Harrison;  and  within  a  fortnight  Harrison 
began  to  receive  reviews.  He  read  them  with 
an  extraordinary  pleasure,  for  they  were  full 
of  discriminating  flattery.  One  asked  if  he 
were  a  " Lancelot  in  disguise."  Two  Liberal 
papers  described  the  stories  as  masterpieces; 
one  compared  them  to  the  best  things  in  Poe 
and  de  Maupassant;  and  another  called  him 
a  second  Rudyard  Kipling.  He  was  greatly 
encouraged,  but,  being  by  nature  modest,  he 
merely  wrote  to  the  publisher  inquiring  what 
he  thought  of  a  second  edition.  His  publisher 
•V  224 


THE  CONSUMMATION 

replied  with  an  estimate,  mentioning  casually 
that  he  had  already  sold  about  four  hundred 
copies.  Harrison  referred  to  his  cheque  book 
and  saw  that  the  first  edition  had  been  a 
thousand  copies.  He  replied,  therefore,  that 
he  would  wait.  He  waited,  and  at  the  end  of 
six  months  wrote  again.  The  publisher  re- 
plied that  he  had  now  sold  four  hundred  and 
three  copies,  but  that,  as  Mr.  Harrison  had  at 
present  an  unknown  name,  he  did  not  advise  a 
second  edition:  there  was  no  market  for  short 
stories.  These  had,  however,  been  so  well  re- 
ceived that  he  recommended  Mr.  Harrison  to 
write  a  long  story.  The  book  was  without 
doubt  a  success,  so  far  as  a  book  of  short  stories 
could  ever  be  a  success.  ...  He  sent  Harri- 
son a  small  cheque,  and  a  large  number  of  re- 
views which  Harrison  had  already  received. 

Harrison  decided  not  to  have  a  second  edi- 
tion, but  to  rest  upon  his  succes  d'estime.  All 
his  relations  were  extremely  pleased,  and  almost 
immediately  he  started  writing  his  long  story. 
Now  it  happened  that  among  Harrison's  friends 
was  a  man  of  genius,  who  sent  Harrison  a  letter. 

"I  had  no  idea,"  he  said,  "that  you  could 
225 


A  MOTLEY 

write  like  this;  of  course,  my  dear  fellow,  the 
stories  are  not  'done';  there  is  no  doubt 
about  it,  they  are  not  'done.'  But  you  have 
plenty  of  time;  you  are  young,  and  I  see  that 
you  can  do  things.  Come  down  here  and 
let  us  have  a  talk  about  what  you  are  at  now." 

On  receiving  this  Harrison  wasted  no  time, 
but  went  down.  The  man  of  genius,  over  a 
jug  of  claret-cup,  on  a  summer's  afternoon, 
pointed  out  how  the  stories  were  not  "done." 

"They  show  a  feeling  for  outside  drama," 
said  he,  "but  there  is  none  of  the  real  drama 
of  psychology." 

Harrison  showed  him  his  reviews.  He  left 
the  man  of  genius  on  the  following  day  with  a 
certain  sensation  of  soreness.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  weeks,  however,  the  soreness  wore  off, 
and  the  words  of  the  man  of  genius  began  to 
bear  fruit,  and  at  the  end  of  two  months 
Harrison  wrote: 

"You  are  quite  right — the  stories  were  not 
'done/  I  think,  however,  that  I  am  now  on 
the  right  path." 

At  the  end  of  another  year,  after  submitting 
it  once  or  twice  to  the  man  of  genius,  he  fin- 
226 


THE  CONSUMMATION 

ished  his  second  book,  and  called  it  "John 
Endacott."  About  this  time  he  left  off  allud- 
ing to  his  "work"  and  began  to  call  his  writ- 
ings "stuff." 

He  sent  it  to  the  publisher  with  the  request 
that  he  would  consider  its  publication  on  a 
royalty.  In  rather  more  than  the  ordinary 
course  of  time  the  publisher  replied,  that  in 
his  opinion  (a  lay  one)  "John  Endacott" 
didn't  quite  fulfil  the  remarkable  promise  of 
Mr.  Harrison's  first  book;  and,  to  show  Har- 
rison his  perfect  honesty,  he  enclosed  an  ex- 
tract from  the  "reader's"  opinion,  which 
stated  that  Mr.  Harrison  had  "fallen  between 
the  stools  of  art  and  the  British  public." 
Much  against  the  publisher's  personal  feelings, 
therefore,  the  publisher  considered  that  he 
could  only  undertake  the  risk  in  the  then  bad 
condition  of  trade — if  Mr.  Harrison  would 
guarantee  the  expenses. 

Harrison  hardened  his  heart,  and  replied 
that  he  was  not  prepared  to  guarantee  the 
expenses.  Upon  which  the  publisher  returned 
his  manuscript,  saying  that  in  his  opinion  (a 
lay  one)  Mr.  Harrison  was  taking  the  wrong 
227 


A  MOTLEY 

turning,  which  he  (the  publisher)  greatly  re- 
gretted, for  he  had  much  appreciated  the 
pleasant  relations  which  had  always  existed 
between  them. 

Harrison  sent  the  book  to  a  younger  pub- 
lisher who  accepted  it  on  a  postponed  royalty. 
It  appeared. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  Harrison  began 
to  receive  reviews.  They  were  mixed.  One 
complained  that  there  was  not  enough  plot; 
another,  fortunately  by  the  same  post,  that 
there  was  too  much  plot.  The  general  ten- 
dency was  to  regret  that  the  author  of  "In 
the  Track  of  the  Stars"  had  not  fulfilled  the 
hopes  raised  by  his  first  book,  in  which  he  had 
shown  such  promise  of  completely  hitting  the 
public  taste.  This  might  have  depressed  Har- 
rison had  he  not  received  a  letter  from  the 
man  of  genius  couched  in  these  terms: 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  am  more  pleased  than  I 
can  say.  I  am  now  more  than  ever  convinced 
that  you  can  do  things." 

Harrison  at  once  began  a  third  book. 

Owing  to  the  unfortunate  postponement  of 
his  royalty  he  did  not  receive  anything  from 
228 


THE  CONSUMMATION 

his  second  book.  The  publisher  sold  three 
hundred  copies.  During  the  period  (eighteen 
months)  that  he  was  writing  his  third  book 
the  man  of  genius  introduced  Harrison  to  a 
critic,  with  the  words:  "You  may  rely  on 
his  judgment;  the  beggar  is  infallible." 

•While  to  the  critic  he  said:  "I  tell  you,  this 
fellow  can  do  things." 

The  critic  was  good  to  Harrison,  who,  as 
before  said,  was  of  an  amiable  disposition. 

When  he  had  finished  his  third  book  he  dedi- 
cated it  to  the  man  of  genius  and  called  it 
"Summer." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  wrote  the  man  of  genius, 
when  he  received  his  copy,  "it  is  good!  There 
is  no  more  to  be  said  about  it;  it  is  good! 
I  read  it  with  indescribable  pleasure." 

On  the  same  day  Harrison  received  a  letter 
from  the  critic  which  contained  the  following: 
"Yes,  it's  undoubtedly  an  advance.  It's  not 
quite  Art,  but  it's  a  great  advance!" 

Harrison  was  considerably  encouraged.    The 

same  publisher  brought   out   the  book,   and 

sold  quite  two  hundred  copies;   but  he  wrote 

rather  dolefully  to  Harrison,  saying  that  the 

229 


A  MOTLEY 

public  demand  seemed  "  almost  exhausted." 
Recognising  the  fact  that  comparisons  are  odi- 
ous, Harrison  refrained  from  comparing  the 
sale  of  the  book  with  that  of  "In  the  Track 
of  the  Stars,"  in  which  he  had  shown  such 
promise  of  "completely  hitting  the  public 
taste."  Indeed,  about  this  time  he  began  to 
have  dreams  of  abandoning  the  sources  of  his 
private  income  and  living  the  true  literary  life. 
He  had  not  many  reviews,  and  began  his  fourth 
book. 

He  was  two  years  writing  this  "work," 
which  he  called  "A  Lost  Man"  and  dedicated 
to  the  critic.  He  sent  a  presentation  copy  to 
the  man  of  genius,  from  whom  he  received  an 
almost  immediate  reply: 

"My  dear  fellow,  it  is  amazing,  really  amaz- 
ing how  you  progress!  Who  would  ever  im- 
agine you  were  the  same  man  that  wrote  'In 
the  Track  of  the  Stars'?  yet  I  pique  my- 
self on  the  fact  that  even  in  your  first  book 
I  spotted  that  you  could  do  things.  Ah! — 
I  wish  I  could  write  like  you!  'A  Lost  Man' 
is  wonderfully  good." 

The  man  of  genius  was  quite  sincere  in  these 
230 


THE  CONSUMMATION 

remarks,  which  he  wrote  after  perusing  the 
first  six  chapters.  He  never,  indeed,  actually 
finished  reading  the  book — he  felt  so  tired, 
as  if  Harrison  had  exhausted  him — but  he 
always  alluded  to  it  as  "  wonderfully  good," 
just  as  if  he  really  had  finished  it. 

Harrison  sent  another  copy  to  the  critic, 
who  wrote  a  genuinely  warm  letter,  'saying 
that  he,  Harrison,  had  " achieved"  it  at  last. 
"This,"  he  said,  "is  art.  I  doubt  if  you  will 
ever  do  anything  better  than  this.  ...  I 
crown  you." 

Harrison  at  once  commenced  his  fifth  book. 

He  was  more  than  three  years  upon  this  new 
"work,"  and  called  it  "A  Pilgrimage."  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  in  getting  it  pub- 
lished. Two  days  after  it  appeared,  however, 
the  critic  wrote  to  Harrison:  "I  cannot  tell 
you,"  he  said,  "how  very  good  I  think  your 
new  book.  It  is  perhaps  stronger  than  'A 
Lost  Man/  perhaps  more  original.  If  any- 
thing it  is  too — I  have  not  finished  it  yet,  but 
I've  written  off  at  once  to  let  you  know." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  never  finished  the 

book.  He  could  not — it  was  too !  "It's 

231 


A  MOTLEY 

wonderfully  good,"  he  said,  however,  to  his 
wife,  and  he  made  her  read  it. 

Meanwhile,  the  man  of  genius  wired  saying: 
"Am  going  to  write  to  you  about  your  book. 
Positively  am,  but  have  lumbago  and  cannot 
hold  pen." 

Harrison  never  received  any  letter,  but  the 
critic  received  one  saying:  "Can  you  read  it? 
7  can't.  Altogether  over  'done.'  " 

Harrison  was  elated.  His  new  publisher 
was  not.  He  wrote  in  a  peevish  strain,  saying 
there  was  absolutely  no  sale.  Mr.  Harrison 
must  take  care  what  he  was  doing  or  he  would 
exhaust  his  public,  and  enclosing  a  solitary 
review,  which  said  amongst  other  things: 
"This  book  may  be  very  fine  art,  too  fine 
altogether.  We  found  it  dull." 

Harrison  went  abroad,  and  began  his  sixth 
book.  He  named  it  "The  Consummation," 
and  worked  at  it  in  hermit-like  solitude;  in  it, 
for  the  first  time,  he  satisfied  himself.  He 
wrote  it,  as  it  were,  with  his  heart's  blood, 
with  an  almost  bitter  delight.  And  he  often 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  how  with  his 
first  book  he  had  so  nearly  hit  the  public  taste; 
232 


THE  CONSUMMATION 

and  how  of  his  fourth  the  critic  had  said: 
"This  is  art.  I  doubt  if  you  will  ever  do  any- 
thing better  than  this."  How  far  away  they 
seemed!  Ah!  this  book  was  indeed  the  "con- 
summation" devoutly  to  be  wished. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land and  took  a  cottage  at  Hampstead,  and 
there  he  finished  the  book.  The  day  after  it 
was  finished  he  took  the  manuscript  and,  going 
to  a  secluded  spot  on  the  top  of  the  Heath,  lay 
down  on  the  grass  to  read  it  quietly  through. 
He  read  three  chapters,  and,  putting  the 
remainder  down,  sat  with  his  head  buried  in 
his  hands. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "I  have  done  it  at  last. 
It  is  goody  wonderfully  good!"  and  for  two 
hours  he  sat  like  that,  with  his  head  in  his 
hands.  He  had  indeed  exhausted  his  public. 
It  was  too  good — he  could  not  read  it  himself! 

Returning  to  his  cottage,  he  placed  the  man- 
uscript in  a  drawer.  He  never  wrote  another 
word. 

1904. 

233 


THE  CHOICE 

SOME  years  ago  in  Chelsea  there  used  to 
stand  at  the  crossing  of  a  street  leading 
to  the  Embankment  an  old  man  whose  living 
was  derived  from  the  cleanliness  of  boots.  In 
the  intervals  of  plying  his  broom  he  could 
generally  be  seen  seated  on  an  upturned 
wooden  box,  talking  to  an  Irish  terrier,  who 
belonged  to  a  house  near  by,  and  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  him.  He  was  a  Cornishman  by 
birth,  had  been  a  plumber  by  trade,  and  was  a 
cheerful,  independent  old  fellow  with  ruddy 
cheeks,  grey  hair  and  beard,  and  little,  bright, 
rather  watery,  grey  eyes.  But  he  was  a  great 
sufferer  from  a  variety  of  ailments.  He  had 
gout,  and  some  trouble  in  his  side,  and  feet 
that  were  like  barometers  in  their  suscep- 
tibility to  weather.  Of  all  these  matters  he 
would  speak  to  us  in  a  very  impersonal  and 
uncomplaining  way,  diagnosing  himself,  as  it 
were,  for  the  benefit  of  his  listeners.  He  was, 
235 


A  MOTLEY 

it  seems,  alone  in  the  world,  not  having  of  course 
at  that  time  anything  to  look  forward  to  in 
the  way  of  a  pension,  nor,  one  fancies,  very 
much  to  look  back  on  except  the  death  of  his 
near  relatives  and  the  decline  of  the  plumbing 
trade.  It  had  declined  him  for  years,  but, 
even  before  a  long  illness  ousted  him  in  favour 
of  younger  men,  he  had  felt  very  severely  the 
palpable  difference  hi  things.  In  old  days 
plumbing  had  been  a  quiet,  steady  business, 
in  which  you  were  apparently  "on  your  own, 
and  knew  where  you  were";  but  latterly  "you 
had  just  had  to  do  what  the  builders  told  you, 
and  of  course  they  weren't  going  to  make  al- 
lowances; if  you  couldn't  do  the  job  as  fast  as 
a  young  man — out  you  went,  and  there  you 
were."  This  long  illness  and  the  death  of  his 
wife  coming  close  together  (and  sweeping  away 
the  last  of  his  savings),  had  determined  him 
therefore  to  buy  a  broom  and  seek  for  other 
occupation.  To  sweep  a  crossing  was  not  a 
profession  that  he  himself  would  have  chosen 
before  all  others,  still  it  was  "better  than  the 
'house — and  you  were  your  own  master."  The 
climate  in  those  days  not  being  the  most  suit- 
236 


THE  CHOICE 

able  for  a  business  which  necessitated  constant 
exposure  to  all  elements  but  that  of  fire,  his 
ailments  were  proportionally  active;  but  the 
one  remarkable  feature  of  his  perpetual  illness 
was  that  he  was  always  " better"  than  he  had 
been.  We  could  not  at  times  help  thinking  that 
this  continual  crescendo  of  good  health  should 
have  gradually  raised  him  to  a  pinnacle  of 
paramount  robustness;  and  it  was  with  a 
certain  disappointment,  in  the  face  of  his  as- 
surances, that  we  watched  him  getting,  on  the 
contrary,  slowly  stiffer  and  feebler,  and  noted 
the  sure  increase  of  the  egg-like  deposits,  which 
he  would  proudly  have  us  remark,  about  his 
wrists  and  fingers. 

He  was  so  entirely  fixed  and  certain  that  he 
was  "going  in  the  river"  before  he  went  "in 
the  'house,"  that  one  hesitated  to  suggest  that 
the  time  was  at  hand  when  he  should  cease  to 
expose  himself  all  day  and  every  day.  He 
had  evidently  pondered  long  and  with  a  cer- 
tain deep  philosophy  on  this  particular  subject, 
and  fortified  himself  by  hearsay. 

"The  'house  ain't  for  a  man  that  respects 
himself,"  he  would  remark.  And,  since  that 
237 


A  MOTLEY 

was  his  conviction,  such  as  respected  them- 
selves could  not  very  well  beg  him  to  act 
against  it.  At  the  same  time,  it  became  in- 
creasingly difficult  to  pass  him  without  won- 
dering how  much  longer  it  would  be  before 
he  finally  sought  shelter  in  the  element  of 
water,  which  was  so  apt  to  pour  down  on  him 
day  by  day. 

It  is  uncertain  whether  he  discussed  this 
matter  of  the  river  versus  the  'house  with  the 
dog,  to  whom  he  was  always  talking;  but  that 
they  shared  a  certain  fellow  feeling  on  the 
subject  of  exposure  and  advancing  age  is  more 
than  probable;  for  as  he  would  point  out: 
The  poor  old  feller's  teeth  were  going;  and 
the  stiffness  across  his  loins  was  always  worse 
when  it  was  wet.  In  fact,  he  was  afraid  that 
the  old  dog  was  gettin'  old!  And  the  dog 
would  sit  patiently  for  an  hour  at  a  time  looking 
up  at  him,  trying  to  find  out,  perhaps,  from  his 
friend's  face  what  a  dog  should  do,  when  the 
enemy  weighed  on  him  till  he  could  no  longer 
tolerate  himself,  not  knowing,  of  course,  that 
kindly  humans  would  see  to  it  that  he  did  not 
suffer  more  than  a  dog  could  bear.  On  his 
238 


THE  CHOICE 

face  with  its  grizzled  muzzle  and  rheumy  eyes, 
thus  turned  up,  there  was  never  a  sign  of 
debate,  it  was  full  of  confidence  that,  what- 
ever decision  his  friend  came  to,  in  this  mo- 
mentous question  between  the  river  and  the 
'house,  would  be  all  right,  perfectly  satisfac- 
tory in  every  way  to  dogs  and  men. 

One  very  rainy  summer,  our  old  friend  in  a 
burst  of  confidence  disclosed  the  wish  of  his 
heart.  It  was  that  he  might  be  suffered  to 
go  down  once  more  to  Fowey  in  Cornwall, 
where  he  had  been  born,  but  had  not  been  for 
fifty  years.  By  some  means  or  other  the  money 
was  procured  for  this  enterprise,  and  he  was 
enabled  to  set  off  by  excursion  train  for  a 
fortnight's  holiday.  He  was  observed  the 
day  before  his  start  talking  at  great  length  to 
the  dog,  and  feeding  it  out  of  a  paper  bag  with 
caraway-seed  biscuits.  A  letter  was  received 
from  him  during  his  absence,  observing  cer- 
tain strange  laws  of  caligraphy,  and  beginning 
"Honnured  Sir  and  Lady."  It  was  full  of  an 
almost  passionate  description  of  a  regatta,  of 
a  certain "  Joe  Petherick"  who  had  remem- 
bered him,  of  the  "luvly  weather"  and  other 
239 


A  MOTLEY 

sources  of  his  great  happiness;  and  ended 
" Yours  truley  obedient."  On  the  fifteenth 
day  he  was  back  at  his  corner  seated  on  his 
box  in  the  pouring  rain,  saying  that  he  was  "a 
different  man,  ten  years  younger,  and  ready 
to  'go'  now,  any  day";  nor  could  anything 
dissuade  him  from  the  theory  that  Heaven  had 
made  a  special  lodgment  in  our  persons  on  his 
behalf.  But  only  four  days  later,  the  sun 
being  for  once  in  the  heavens,  he  was  so  long 
in  answering  a  salutation  that  we  feared  he 
had  been  visited  by  some  kind  of  stroke;  his 
old  face  had  lost  colour,  it  seemed  stiff,  and 
his  eyes  had  almost  disappeared. 

Inquiry  elicited  from  him  the  information 
that  he  was  better  than  he  had  been,  but  that 
the  dog  was  dead.  They  had  put  it  away 
while  he  had  been  gone,  and  he  was  afraid  that 
he  should  miss  the  "  faithful  old  feller." 

"He  was  very  good  to  me,"  he  said;  "always 
came  for  a  bit  of  bread  or  biscuit.  And  he  was 
company  to  me;  I  never  knew  such  a  sensible 
creature."  He  seemed  to  think  that  the  dog 
must  have  pined  during  his  absence,  and  that 
this  had  accelerated  his  end  by  making  his 
240 


THE  CHOICE 

owners  think  he  was  more  decrepit  than  he 
really  was. 

The  death  of  the  dog,  and  the  cold  damp 
autumn  that  year,  told  heavily  on  the  old  man, 
but  it  was  not  till  mid-November  that  he  was 
noted  one  morning  absent  from  his  post.  As 
he  did  not  reappear  his  lodging  was  sought  out. 
It  was  in  a  humble  street,  but  the  house  was 
neat  and  clean,  and  the  landlady  seemed  a  good, 
rough  woman.  She  informed  us  that  our  old 
friend  was  laid  up  "with  pleurisy  and  the 
gouty  rheumatics";  that  by  rights,  of  course, 
he  ought  to  be  in  the  infirmary,  but  she  didn't 
like  to  turn  him  out,  though  where  she  would 
get  her  rent  from  she  didn't  know,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  food,  because  she  couldn't  let 
him  starve  while  there  he  was  cryin'  out  with 
the  pain,  and  no  one  but  herself  to  turn  a  hand 
to  him,  with  his  door  open  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  where  he  could  holler  for  her  if  he 
wanted.  An  awful  independent  old  feller,  too, 
or  else  she  wouldn't  hesitate,  for  that  was 
where  he  ought  to  be,  and  no  mistake,  not 
having  a  soul  in  the  world  to  close  his  eyes, 
and  that's  what  it  would  come  to,  though  she 
241 


A  MOTLEY 

would  never  be  surprised  if  he  got  up  and  went 
out  tomorrow,  he  was  that  stubborn! 

Leaving  her  to  the  avocations  which  we 
had  interrupted  by  coming  in,  we  went  up- 
stairs. 

The  door  of  the  back  room  at  the  top  was, 
as  indeed  she  had  led  us  to  suppose,  open; 
and  through  it  the  sound  of  our  old  friend's 
voice  could  be  heard,  travelling  forth: 

"0  Lord  God,  that  took  the  dog  from  me, 
and  gave  me  this  here  rheumatics,  help  me  to 
keep  a  stiff  and  contrite  heart.  I  am  an  old 
man,  0  Lord  God,  and  I  am  not  one  to  go 
into  that  place.  So  God  give  me  a  stiff  heart, 
and  I  will  remember  you  in  my  prayers,  for 
that's  about  all  I  can  do  now,  0  God.  I  have 
been  a  good  one  in  my  time,  0  Lord,  and 
cannot  remember  doing  harm  to  any  man  for 
a  long  while  now,  and  I  have  tried  to  keep 
upsides  with  it;  so,  good  Lord,  remember  and 
do  not  forget  me,  now  that  I  am  down,  a-lying 
here  all  day,  and  the  rent  goin'  on.  For  ever 
and  ever,  0  Lord,  Amen." 

We  allowed  a  little  time  to  pass  before  we 
went  in,  unwilling  that  he  should  think  we  had 
242 


THE  CHOICE 

overheard  that  prayer.  He  was  lying  in  a 
small  dingy  bed,  with  a  medicine  bottle  and 
glass  beside  him  on  an  old  tin  trunk.  There 
was  no  fire. 

He  was — it  seemed — better  than  he  had 
been;  the  doctor's  stuff  was  doing  him  good. 

Certain  arrangements  were  made  for  his 
benefit,  and  in  less  than  three  weeks  he  was 
back  again  at  his  corner. 

In  the  spring  of  the  following  year  we  went 
abroad  and  were  absent  several  months.  He 
was  no  longer  at  his  post  when  at  last  we  came 
back,  and  a  policeman  informed  us  that  he 
had  not  been  there  for  some  weeks.  We  made 
a  second  pilgrimage  to  his  lodgings.  The 
house  had  changed  hands.  The  new  landlady 
was  a  thin,  anxious-looking  young  woman, 
who  spoke  in  a  thin,  anxious  voice.  Yes,  the 
old  man  had  been  taken  very  ill — double 
pneumonia  and  heart  disease,  she  thought. 
Anyway,  she  couldn't  have  the  worry  and 
responsibility  of  him,  let  alone  her  rent.  She 
had  had  the  doctor,  and  had  him  taken  off. 
Yes,  it  had  upset  him  a  bit;  he  would  never 
have  gone  if  he'd  had  his  choice;  but  of  course 
243 


A  MOTLEY 

she  had  her  living  to  get.  She  had  his  bits 
of  things  locked  up  all  right;  he  owed  her  a 
little  rent.  In  her  opinion  he'd  never  come  out 
again.  She  was  very  sorry  for  him,  too,  he'd 
given  no  trouble  till  he  was  took  ill. 

Following  up  her  information  we  repaired 
with  heavy  hearts  to  the  'house,  which  he  had 
so  often  declared  he  would  never  enter.  Hav- 
ing ascertained  the  number  of  his  ward  we 
mounted  the  beautifully  clean  stairs.  In  the 
fifth  of  a  row  of  beds,  our  old  friend  was 
lying,  apparently  asleep.  But  watching  him 
carefully,  we  saw  that  his  lips,  deep  sunk 
between  his  frosty  moustache  and  beard,  were 
continually  moving. 

"He's  not  asleep,"  said  the  nurse;  "he'll 
lie  like  that  all  the  time.  He  frets." 

At  the  sound  of  his  name,  he  had  opened 
his  eyes,  which,  though  paler  and  smaller  and 
more  rheumy,  were  still  almost  bright.  He 
fixed  them  on  us  with  a  peculiar  stare,  as  much 
as  to  say:  "You've  taken  an  advantage  of 
me,  finding  me  here."  We  could  hardly  bear 
that  look,  and  hurriedly  asked  him  how  he  was. 
He  tried  to  raise  himself  and  answered  huskily 
244 


THE  CHOICE 

that  he  was  better  than  he  had  been.  We 
begged  him  not  to  exert  himself,  and  told  him 
how  it  was  that  we  had  been  away,  and  so 
forth.  He  seemed  to  pay  no  attention,  but 
suddenly  said:  "I'm  in  here;  I  don't  mean 
to  stay,  I'll  be  goin'  out  in  a  day  or  two." 
We  tried  to  confirm  that  theory,  but  the  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes  seemed  to  take  away  our 
power  of  comfort,  and  make  us  ashamed  of 
looking  at  him.  He  beckoned  us  closer. 

"If  I'd  a  had  the  use  of  my  legs,"  he  whis- 
pered, "they'd  never  have  had  me.  I'd  a-gone 
in  the  river  first.  But  I  don't  mean  to  stay — 
I'm  goin'  back  home." 

The  nurse  told  us,  however,  that  this  was 
out  of  the  question;  he  was  still  very  ill. 

Four  days  later  we  went  again  to  see  him. 
He  was  no  longer  there.  He  had  gone  home. 
They  had  buried  him  that  morning. 

1910. 


245 


THE  JAPANESE  QUINCE 

A3  Mr.  Nilson,  well  known  in  the  City, 
opened  the  window  of  his  dressing- 
room  on  Campden  Hill,  he  experienced  a  pecu- 
liar sweetish  sensation  in  the  back  of  his 
throat,  and  a  feeling  of  emptiness  just  under 
his  fifth  rib.  Hooking  the  window  back,  he 
noticed  that  a  little  tree  in  the  Square  Gar- 
dens had  come  out  in  blossom,  and  that  the 
thermometer  stood  at  sixty.  "  Perfect  morn- 
ing," he  thought;  "Spring  at  last!" 

Resuming  some  meditations  on  the  price  of 
Tintos,  he  took  up  an  ivory-backed  hand-glass 
and  scrutinised  his  face.  His  firm,  well- 
coloured  cheeks,  with  their  neat  brown  mous- 
taches, and  his  round,  well-opened,  clear  grey 
eyes,  wore  a  reassuring  appearance  of  good 
health.  Putting  on  his  black  frock  coat,  he 
went  downstairs. 

In  the  dining-room  his  morning  paper  was 
laid  out  on  the  sideboard.  Mr.  Nilson  had 
247 


A  MOTLEY 

scarcely  taken  it  in  his  hand  when  he  again 
became  aware  of  that  queer  feeling.  Some- 
what concerned,  he  went  to  the  French  win- 
dow and  descended  the  scrolled  iron  steps 
into  the  fresh  air.  A  cuckoo  clock  struck  eight. 

"Half  an  hour  to  breakfast,"  he  thought; 
'Til  take  a  turn  in  the  Gardens." 

He  had  them  to  himself,  and  proceeded  to 
pace  the  circular  path  with  his  morning  paper 
clasped  behind  him.  He  had  scarcely  made 
two  revolutions,  however,  when  it  was  borne 
in  on  him  that,  instead  of  going  away  in  the 
fresh  air,  the  feeling  had  increased.  He  drew 
several  deep  breaths,  having  heard  deep  breath- 
ing recommended  by  his  wife's  doctor;  but 
they  augmented  rather  than  diminished  the 
sensation — as  of  some  sweetish  liquor  in  course 
within  him,  together  with  a  faint  aching  just 
above  his  heart.  Running  over  what  he  had 
eaten  the  night  before,  he  could  recollect  no 
unusual  dish,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  it 
might  possibly  be  some  smell  affecting  him. 
But  he  could  detect  nothing  except  a  faint 
sweet  lemony  scent,  rather  agreeable  than 
otherwise,  which  evidently  emanated  from  the 
248 


THE  JAPANESE  QUINCE 

bushes  budding  in  the  sunshine.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  resuming  his  promenade,  when 
a  blackbird  close  by  burst  into  song,  and, 
looking  up,  Mr.  Nilson  saw  at  a  distance  of 
perhaps  five  yards  a  little  tree,  in  the  heart  of 
whose  branches  the  bird  was  perched.  He 
stood  staring  curiously  at  this  tree,  recognising 
it  for  that  which  he  had  noticed  from  his 
window.  It  was  covered  with  young  blossoms, 
pink  and  white,  and  little  bright  green  leaves 
both  round  and  spikey;  and  on  all  this  blossom 
and  these  leaves  the  sunlight  glistened.  Mr. 
Nilson  smiled;  the  little  tree  was  so  alive  and 
pretty!  And  instead  of  passing  on,  he  stayed 
there  smiling  at  the  tree. 

" Morning  like   this!"    he   thought;    "and 
here  I  am  the  only  person  in  the  Square  who 

has  the — to  come  out  and !"    But  he  had 

no  sooner  conceived  this  thought,  than  he  saw 
quite  near  him  a  man  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  who  was  also  staring  up  and  smiling  at 
the  little  tree.  Rather  taken  aback,  Mr.  Nilson 
ceased  to  smile,  and  looked  furtively  at  the 
stranger.  It  was  his  next-door  neighbour, 
Mr.  Tandram,  well  known  in  the  City,  who 
249 


A  MOTLEY 

had  occupied  the  adjoining  house  for  some 
five  years.  Mr.  Nilson  perceived  at  once  the 
awkwardness  of  his  position,  for,  being  married, 
they  had  not  yet  had  occasion  to  speak  to  one 
another.  Doubtful  as  to  his  proper  conduct, 
he  decided  at  last  to  murmur:  "Fine  morn- 
ing!" and  was  passing  on,  when  Mr.  Tandram 
answered:  " Beautiful,  for  the  time  of  year!" 
Detecting  a  slight  nervousness  in  his  neigh- 
bour's voice,  Mr.  Nilson  was  emboldened  to 
regard  him  openly.  He  was  of  about  Mr. 
Nilson's  own  height,  with  firm,  well-coloured 
cheeks,  neat  brown  moustaches,  and  round, 
well-opened,  clear  grey  eyes;  and  he  was  wear- 
ing a  black  frock  coat.  Mr.  Nilson  noticed  that 
he  had  his  morning  paper  clasped  behind  him 
as  he  looked  up  at  the  little  tree.  And,  visited 
somehow  by  the  feeling  that  he  had  been  caught 
out,  he  said  abruptly: 

"Er — can  you  give  me  the  name  of  that 
tree?" 

Mr.  Tandram  answered : 

"I  was  about  to  ask  you  that,"  and  stepped 
towards  it.  Mr.  Nilson  also  approached  the 
tree. 

250 


THE  JAPANESE  QUINCE 

"Sure  to  have  its  name  on,  I  should  think," 
he  said. 

Mr.  Tandram  was  the  first  to  see  the  little 
label,  close  to  where  the  blackbird  had  been 
sitting.  He  read  it  out. 

" Japanese  quince!" 

"Ah!  "  said  Mr.  Nilson,  "thought  so. 
Early  flowerers." 

"Very,"  assented  Mr.  Tandram,  and  added: 
"Quite  a  feelin'  in  the  air  to-day." 

Mr.  Nilson  nodded. 

"It  was  a  blackbird  singin',"  he  said. 

"Blackbirds,"  answered  Mr.  Tandram,  "I 
prefer  them  to  thrushes  myself;  more  body  in 
the  note."  And  he  looked  at  Mr.  Nilson  in 
an  almost  friendly  way. 

"Quite,"  murmured  Mr.  Nilson.  "These 
exotics,  they  don't  bear  fruit.  Pretty  blos- 
som!" and  he  again  glanced  up  at  the  blos- 
som, thinking:  "Nice  fellow,  this,  I  rather 
like  him." 

Mr.  Tandram  also  gazed  up  at  the  blossom. 

And  the  little  tree,  as  if  appreciating  their 

attention,    quivered    and    glowed.      From    a 

distance,  the  blackbird  gave  a  loud,  clear  call. 

251 


A  MOTLEY 

Mr.  Nilson  dropped  his  eyes.  It  struck  him 
suddenly  that  Mr.  Tandram  looked  a  little 
foolish;  and,  as  if  he  had  seen  himself,  he  said: 
"I  must  be  going  in.  Good  morning!" 

A  shade  passed  over  Mr.  Tandram's  face, 
as  if  he,  too,  had  suddenly  noticed  something 
about  Mr.  Nilson. 

"Good  morning,"  he  replied,  and  clasping 
their  journals  to  their  backs  they  separated. 

Mr.  Nilson  retraced  his  steps  towards  his 
garden  window,  walking  slowly  so  as  to  avoid 
arriving  at  the  same  time  as  his  neighbour. 
Having  seen  Mr.  Tandram  mount  his  scrolled 
iron  steps,  he  ascended  his  own  in  turn.  On 
the  top  step  he  paused. 

With  the  slanting  Spring  sunlight  darting 
and  quivering  into  it,  the  Japanese  quince 
seemed  more  living  than  a  tree.  The  blackbird 
had  returned  to  it,  and  was  chanting  out  his 
heart. 

Mr.  Nilson  sighed;  again  he  felt  that  queer 
sensation,  that  chokey  feeling  in  his  throat. 

The  sound  of  a  cough  or  sigh  attracted  his 
attention.  There,  in  the  shadow  of  his  French 
window,  stood  Mr.  Tandram,  also  looking 
252 


THE  JAPANESE  QUINCE 

forth  across  the  Gardens  at  the  little  quince 
tree. 

Unaccountably  upset,  Mr.  Nilson  turned 
abruptly  into  the  house,  and  opened  his  morn- 
ing paper. 

1910. 


253 


ONCE  MORE 

AWAKENED  by  the  tiny  kicks  of  her 
2\.  baby,  she  straightened  his  limbs  on  her 
breast,  and  lay  staring  up  at  the  dirty  ceiling. 
The  first  light  of  the  March  morning,  through 
a  window  which  had  but  a  ragged  piece  of 
muslin  over  the  lower  half,  spread  its  pale 
glimmer  in  the  little  room.  It  was,  like  all  the 
little  back  rooms  of  that  street,  deserted  by 
Hope;  neither  was  there  anything  in  it  of 
beauty  or  of  value  except  the  remains  of  her 
stock  of  violets  in  the  round  brown-wicker 
basket. 

Soothed  by  the  warmth  of  her  chest  and 
arms  the  baby  was  sleeping  again,  with  his 
down-covered  tiny  head  snuggled  into  the  hol- 
low of  her  neck;  and,  just  above  that  head, 
the  mother's  face  was  like  that  of  a  little 
sphynx. 

Two  days  before,  her  husband  had  left  her, 
saying  that  he  was  not  coming  back,  but  this 
255 


A  MOTLEY 

had  not  dismayed  her,  for  with  the  strange  wis- 
dom of  those  who  begin  to  suffer  young,  she  had 
long  ago  measured  her  chances  with  and  with- 
out him.  She  made  more  than  he  did  in  their 
profession  of  flower-selling,  because  sometimes 
a  "toff"  gave  her  a  fancy  price,  touched  per- 
haps by  the  sight  of  her  tired,  pretty  face,  and 
young  figure  bent  sideways  by  the  weight  of 
her  baby.  Yes,  he  took  more  money  off  her 
than  she  did  off  him;  besides,  he  had  left  her 
twice  before  in  the  same  way,  and  twice  come 
back.  The  feeling  in  her  heart  was  due  to 
another  discovery.  Last  evening,  going  home 
dead-tired,  she  had  seen  him  on  an  omnibus 
with  his  arm  round  a  woman's  waist.  At  that 
sight  a  flame  had  leaped  up  in  her;  burdened 
with  baby  and  basket,  she  had  run  after  the 
'bus;  but  it  went  too  fast  for  her,  she  was  soon 
left  behind.  And  long,  huddled  over  her  fire, 
she  had  sat,  seeing  him  with  that  other  woman. 
And  when  the  fire  went  out,  getting  into  bed, 
had  lain  sleepless,  still  seeing,  and  hearing,  and 
shivering  with  the  cold.  So,  that  was  where 
he  went !  Was  she  going  to  put  up  with  it 
any  more?  Thus  she  lay  brooding,  avoiding 
256 


ONCE  MORE 

all  extravagance,  matter-of-fact,  sphynx-like, 
even  in  thought. 

The  room  grew  light;  she  got  up,  went  to 
the  little  cracked  mirror,  and  looked  long  at 
her  face.  If  she  had  ever  known  that  she  was 
pretty,  the  life  she  led  with  her  boy-husband, 
sometimes  ill-treated,  always  scantily  clothed, 
and  more  or  less  in  want,  had  bereft  her  of  this 
knowledge.  The  woman  round  whose  waist 
she  had  seen  his  arm  looked  well-fed  and  had 
feathers  in  her  hat.  And  in  that  mirror  she 
tried  desperately  to  find  something  which 
might  weigh  against  those  full  cheeks  and  those 
feathers.  But  she  seemed  to  herself  all  eyes, 
there  was  no  colour  in  her  cheeks;  she  seemed 
sad  to  herself.  Turning  from  that  glass  of 
little  comfort,  she  lit  the  fire,  and  taking  up 
her  baby,  sat  down  to  feed  it.  With  her  bare 
feet  to  the  flame,  and  feeling  the  movement  of 
the  baby's  lips  against  her,  she  had  the  first 
sensation  of  warmth  since  the  omnibus  had 
passed  her.  To  her,  striving  so  hard  but  so 
unconsciously  for  any  thought  that  would 
assuage  her  jealousy,  there  came  a  recollection 
that  was  almost  pleasant.  Last  evening  a 
257 


A  MOTLEY 

"toff,"  entering  his  garden  gate,  had  bought 
from  her  a  single  bunch  of  violets  for  half-a- 
crown.  Why  had  he  smiled,  and  given  her  that 
half-crown?  With  each  tug  of  the  baby's  lips, 
the  sensation  of  warmth  grew,  and  with  it 
began  to  be  mingled  a  feeling  of  excitement. 
He  would  not  have  looked  at  her  so  long, 
would  not  have  smiled — unless  he  had  thought 
her  pretty!  But  suddenly  the  baby's  lips 
ceased  to  move;  the  feeling  of  excitement 
died.  Wrapping  the  little  thing  in  her  shawl, 
she  laid  him  back  on  the  bed;  then,  heating  a 
little  water,  began  to  wash  with  unwonted  care. 
She  had  a  passionate  desire  to  make  herself 
finer  than  that  woman  with  feathers  in  her  hat. 
No  "toff"  would  have  smiled  at  her,  even 
though  she  had  not  had  to  pawn  her  clothes. 
Her  little  brain,  frozen  with  brooding,  flaming 
with  jealousy,  ran  riot  amongst  clothes.  There 
hung  on  two  nails  driven  into  the  wall — ail 
her  wardrobe — a  ragged  skirt,  torn  jersey,  and 
black  straw  hat.  She  put  on  her  one  under- 
garment, and  went  up  to  them.  Looking  at 
those  dim  clothes,  she  was  vaguely  conscious 
of  the  irony  in  things.  Three  weeks  ago  she 
258 


ONCE  MORE 

had  "put  away"  her  best  suit  for  four  shillings 
and  sixpence,  to  renew  her  husband's  stock 
of  flowers,  which  rain  had  ruined.  She  had 
pawned  her  attractions  to  give  him  the  chance 
to  go  after  that  woman!  From  the  secret 
place  where  she  kept  her  wealth,  from  those 
many  pawn-tickets,  she  selected  one,  and  put 
it  between  her  teeth;  then,  from  a  broken 
cup,  where,  under  a  ragged  cloth,  she  stored 
her  money,  she  took  the  "toff's"  half-crown, 
and  five  pennies.  It  was  all  she  had,  and  the 
week's  rent  was  owing.  She  looked  round 
the  room;  her  blankets  were  in  pawn;  there 
was  nothing  left  except  her  shawl.  It  was  a 
thick  shawl,  good  for  eighteen-pence.  With 
interest  threepence,  she  would  still  need  four- 
pence  to  redeem  her  suit.  She  went  to  her 
flower-basket  and  lifted  the  piece  of  dirty 
sacking.  The  bunches  were  withered.  In 
her  rage  and  disturbance  overnight  she  had 
forgotten  to  damp  them.  She  sat  down  on 
her  bed,  and  for  full  quarter  of  an  hour  stayed 
there  unmoving,  more  like  a  little  sphynx  than 
ever,  with  her  short,  ivory-coloured  face,  black 
eyes,  straight  brows  and  closed  red  lips.  Sud- 
259 


A  MOTLEY 

denly  she  got  up;  took  off  her  undergarment 
and  examined  it.  There  were  no  holes!  Wrap- 
ping it  tightly  in  her  shawl,  she  put  on  skirt  and 
jersey,  pinned  her  hat  to  her  black  hair,  took 
pawn-ticket  and  her  money,  and  went  down 
the  dirty  stairs,  out  into  the  cold. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  small  shop  which 
was  the  centre  of  her  universe.  No  one  was 
there,  for  the  door  had  only  just  been  opened; 
and  she  waited,  stolid,  amongst  those  innumer- 
able goods,  each  one  of  which  had  been  brought 
there  wrapped  in  the  stuff  of  human  life.  The 
proprietor  caught  sight  of  her  presently  through 
the  glass  of  the  inner  door.  He  was  a  dark, 
strong  man,  and  his  quick  eye,  which  had  in  it 
a  sort  of  cringing  hardness,  instantly  marked 
her  shawl. 

"I've  had  that  before,  I  think,  eighteen- 
pence,  ain't  it?"  From  its  recesses  he  took 
the  undergarment.  He  looked  at  this  critically; 
it  was  very  plain,  thick,  and  had  no  frills,  but 
it  was  strangely  new.  "Sixpence  on  that, 
'alfpenny  off  for  the  washing."  Then,  as  if 
something  in  the  nature  of  this  transaction 
had  moved  him,  he  added:  "Let  you  off  the 
260 


ONCE  MORE 

washing."  She  silently  held  out  to  him  her 
small  rough  hand,  with  her  money  and  the 
pawn-ticket.  He  scrutinised  both,  and  said: 
"I  see;  that'll  be  tuppence  I  owe  you  on  the 
deal." 

With  the  twopence  and  her  suit,  she  jour- 
neyed home.  She  put  on  the  suit  over  her 
skirt  and  jersey,  for  the  sake  of  the  warmth, 
and  because  that  woman  had  full  cheeks; 
stood  for  some  minutes  smoothing  her  hair 
and  rubbing  her  face,  goose-fleshed  with  the 
cold;  then,  leaving  her  baby  with  the  woman 
on  the  ground  floor,  she  went  out  towards  the 
road  where  the  omnibus  had  passed.  Her 
heart  was  dry  with  longing  to  meet  that  wom- 
an; to  be  avenged  on  her,  and  him.  All 
the  morning  she  walked  up  and  down.  Now 
and  again  a  youth  stopped  her,  and  tried  to 
enter  into  conversation;  but  he  soon  desisted, 
as  if  something  in  her  face  had  withered  his 
good  intentions.  With  the  twopence  she 
bought  a  sausage-roll,  ate  it,  went  home,  fed 
her  baby,  and  again  came  out.  It  was  now 
afternoon,  but  she  still  wandered  up  and  down, 
always  driven  on  by  that  longing;  and  every 
261 


A  MOTLEY 

now  and  then  smiling  up  at  some  man.  What 
she  thought  to  gain  by  these  smiles  cannot  be 
told,  for  no  one  could  have  answered  them, 
so  mirthless  were  they;  and  yet  they  gave  her 
a  queer  dead  pleasure,  as  if  she  felt  that  they 
ministered  to  her  vengeance.  A  strong  wind 
drove  the  clouds  over  a  clear  blue  sky,  and  in 
this  wind  the  buds  and  few  crocuses  in  the 
gardens  were  trembling.  In  some  of  the 
Squares,  too,  pigeons  were  cooing;  and  all 
the  people  seemed  hurrying  with  happiness. 
But  for  that  young  wife,  for  ever  walking 
and  loitering  down  the  long  road  where  the 
omnibus  had  passed,  Spring  travelled  the  air 
in  vain. 

At  five  o'clock,  moved  by  yet  another  ob- 
scure impulse  of  her  longing  for  revenge,  she 
branched  off  her  beat  to  the  white  house  where 
she  had  seen  the  "toff"  enter  last  evening. 
She  hesitated  long  before  ringing  the  bell, 
and  then  very  stolidly  asked  to  see  "the 
gentleman,"  in  a  voice  a  little  thick  and  hoarse 
from  the  many  colds  she  caught  selling  her 
flowers.  While  the  maid  went  to  see  if  this 
were  possible,  she  waited  in  the  hall.  There 
262 


ONCE  MORE 

was  a  mirror  there;  but  she  did  not  look  at 
herself,  standing  quite  still  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground. 

She  was  shown  into  a  room,  lighter,  warmer, 
more  strange  than  any  room  she  had  ever  been 
in;  giving  her  a  feeling  as  though  a  plateful 
of  Christmas  pudding,  soft,  dark,  and  rich,  had 
been  placed  before  her.  The  walls  were  white 
and  the  woodwork  white,  and  there  were 
brown  velvet  curtains,  and  gold  frames  round 
the  pictures. 

She  went  in  smiling,  as  at  the  men  in  the 
street.  But  the  smile  faded  from  her  lips  at 
once.  On  a  sofa  was  a  lady  in  a  white  dress; 
and  she  wished  to  turn  and  go  away,  for  she 
felt  at  once  that  they  must  know  she  had  no 
undergarment  beneath  her  new  suit.  The 
gentleman  asked  her  to  sit  down.  She  sat 
down,  therefore;  and  in  answer  to  questions, 
told  them  that  her  stock  was  spoiled,  that  she 
owed  a  week's  rent,  that  her  husband  had  left 
her  and  the  baby!  But  even  while  speaking, 
she  felt  that  this  was  not  what  she  had  come 
to  say.  They  seemed  to  ask  the  questions  over 
and  over  again,  as  if  they  did  not  understand 
263 


A  MOTLEY 

her.  And  she  told  them  suddenly  that  her 
husband  had  gone  with  another  woman.  When 
she  said  that,  the  lady  made  soft  sounds, 
as  if  she  understood  and  was  sorry.  She  re- 
counted then  how  she  had  seen  them  pass 
her  on  the  omnibus;  and  noticed  what  pretty 
small  ears  the  lady  had.  The  gentleman  was 
afraid  he  did  not  know  what  could  be  done 
for  her:  Did  she  wish  to  leave  her  husband? 
She  answered  quickly:  "I  couldn't  stay  with 
him  now,  of  course."  And  the  lady  murmured: 
"No,  no;  of  course  not."  What  then — the 
gentleman  said — dip!  she  propose  to  do?  She 
remained  silent,  staring  at  the  carpet.  It 
seemed  to  her  suddenly  that  they  were  think- 
ing: "She's  come  for  money."  The  gentle- 
man took  out  a  sovereign,  and  said:  "Will 
that  be  any  good  to  you?"  She  made  a  little 
bob,  and  took  the  sovereign,  clutching  it  very 
tight.  It  seemed  to  her  that  they  wanted  her 
to  go  away.  She  got  up,  therefore,  and  went 
to  the  door.  The  gentleman  went  with  her; 
and  as  he  opened  the  front  door  he  smiled. 
She  did  not  smile  back,  for  she  saw  that  he 
had  only  meant  to  be  kind,  yesterday.  And 
264 


ONCE  MORE 

this  hurt  her,  as  if  suddenly  there  had  slipped 
away  from  her  part  of  her  revenge. 

She  went  home,  still  clutching  the  unchanged 
sovereign;  so  weak  and  faint  that  she  could 
hardly  feed  her  baby.  She  made  up  her  fire 
and  sat  down  beside  it.  It  was  past  six,  and 
nearly  dark.  Twice  before,  he  had  come  back 
on  the  third  day,  about  this  time.  If  he  were 
to  come  back  now! 

She  crouched  nearer  to  the  fire.  It  grew 
quite  dark.  She  looked  at  her  baby;  he  was 
asleep,  with  his  tiny  fists  crumpled  against 
his  cheeks.  She  made  up  the  fire,  and  went 
back  to  her  beat  along  the  road  where  the 
omnibus  had  passed. 

Two  or  three  men  stopped  her,  but  she  no 
longer  smiled  at  them,  and  they  soon  sheered 
off.  It  was  very  clear,  very  cold;  but  she 
did  not  feel  the  cold.  Her  eyes  were  fastened 
on  those  great  vans  of  warmth,  the  motor 
omnibuses.  Long  before  each  had  borne  its 
burden  close,  her  eyes  had  begun  searching. 
Long  after  they  had  rumbled  by,  her  gaze 
followed  them  from  under  the  brim  of  her 
black  straw  hat.  But  that  for  which  she  was 
265 


A  MOTLEY 

looking  never  appeared.  In  the  midst  of  the 
roar  and  the  sudden  hushes,  of  the  stir  and 
confusion  of  lamplight  and  shadow,  the  stir 
and  confusion  and  blackness  in  her  own  heart, 
she  thought  of  her  baby,  and  hurried  away. 
He  was  still  sleeping,  the  fire  still  alight. 
Without  undressing,  she  crept  into  bed,  ex- 
hausted. If  she  was  like  a  little  sphynx  awake, 
she  was  more  so  than  ever  under  the  mystery 
of  sleep,  with  her  black  lashes  resting  on  her 
cheeks,  and  her  lips  just  parted.  In  her 
dreams  she  twisted  her  hands  and  moaned. 
She  woke  at  midnight. 

By  the  light  of  the  still  live  fire  she  saw  her 
husband  moving  past  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He 
neither  spoke,  nor  looked  at  her,  but  sat  down 
before  the  fire,  and  began  to  take  off  his  boots. 
The  sight  of  that  domestic  act  roused  her  to 
fury.  So  he  could  come  in  when  he  liked— 
after  going  where  he  had  gone,  after  being 

what  he  had  been,  the !    But  no  fierce 

sound  came;  she  could  form  no  word  bad 
enough  to  call  him  by.  After  three  days — 
after  what  she  had  seen — after  all  her  waiting 
— and  walking — and  suffering — taking  off  his 
266 


ONCE  MORE 

boots!  Stealthily  she  raised  herself  in  bed,  the 
better  to  watch  that  act.  If  she  had  opened  her 
mouth  it  would  have  been  to  utter  a  scream; 
no  lesser  cry  could  have  relieved  her  heart. 
And  still  he  neither  spoke  nor  looked  at  her. 
She  saw  him  slide  down  off  the  wooden  chair, 
as  if  he  would  creep  right  into  the  fire.  And 

she  thought:    Let  him  burn,  the !    A  vile 

word  clung  in  her  brain  and  would  not  come 
forth.  She  could  just  see  his  figure  hunched 
now  all  in  a  heap,  she  could  hear  his  teeth  chat- 
tering, and  the  sound  gave  her  pleasure.  Then 
he  was  quite  silent,  and  she,  too,  held  her 
breath.  Was  he  asleep?  The  thought  of  this 
sleep,  while  she  lay  there  consumed  with  rage, 
was  too  much  for  her.  She  uttered  a  little 
furious  sound.  He  did  not  look  up,  but  his 
foot  moved,  and  a  loosened  cinder  fell;  there 
was  again  silence.  She  began  creeping  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  Crouching  there,  with  loins 
curved,  and  her  face  bent  down  between  her 
stretched-out  arms,  she  was  close  above  his 
huddled  figure;  so  close  that  with  her  hands 
she  could  have  seized  and  twisted  back  his 
head.  In  fancy  she  was  already  doing  this, 
267 


A  MOTLEY 

putting  her  eyes  close  to  his,  setting  her  teeth 
in  his  forehead — so  vividly  that  she  had  the 
taste  of  blood  in  her  mouth.  Suddenly  she 
recoiled,  burying  her  face  between  her  arms, 
on  the  ragged  bed  coverlet.  For  some  minutes 
she  stayed  thus,  crouched  like  a  wild  cat  on  a 
branch.  There  was  a  dreadful  sore  feeling 
within  her.  She  was  thinking  of  the  first 
night  they  had  come  home  to  that  room; 
she  was  remembering  his  kisses.  Something 
clicked  in  her  throat.  She  no  longer  wished  to 
tear  and  bite,  and  she  raised  her  face.  He 
had  not  stirred.  She  could  just  see  the  outline 
of  his  cheek  and  chin;  beardless,  of  a  boy, 
utterly  still,  as  if  dead.  She  felt  cold,  and 
afraid.  What  was  this  silence?  She  could 
not  even  hear  him  breathe.  She  slid  down  on 
the  floor.  His  eyes  were  open,  very  colourless, 
staring  at  the  dying  fire;  his  cheeks  were  hol- 
low, his  lips  seemed  to  have  no  blood  in  them. 
But  they  moved,  shivering  desperately.  So 
he  was  not  dead!  Only  frozen  and  starved  as 
he  had  been  when  he  came  back  to  her  those 
two  other  times.  The  mask  of  her  face  let 
nothing  be  seen  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings, 
268 


ONCE  MORE 

but  her  teeth  bit  into  her  lower  lip.  So  this 
was  how  he  had  come  back  to  her  once  more! 
The  last  of  the  fuel  in  the  grate  suddenly 
flickered  into  flame.  He  turned  his  head 
towards  her.  By  the  light  of  that  feeble  fire 
his  eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  her  baby;  they 
seemed  to  ask  her  for  something;  they  looked 
so  helpless;  all  his  shuddering  form  seemed 
helpless.  He  muttered  something;  but  his 
shivering  choked  the  words,  so  that  all  that 
came  to  her  was  a  sound  such  as  her  baby 
made.  And  at  that  sound  something  in  her 
heart  gave  way;  she  pulled  his  head  down  on 
her  breast,  and  with  all  her  strength  clutched 
him  to  her.  And  as  the  fire  died,  she  still 
held  him  there,  rocking  him  and  sobbing,  and 
once  more  trying  to  give  him  of  the  warmth 
of  her  little  body. 

1910. 


269 


DELIGHT 

1WAS  taken  by  a  friend  one  afternoon  to  a 
theatre.  When  the  curtain  was  raised, 
the  stage  was  perfectly  empty  save  for  tall 
grey  curtains  which  enclosed  it  on  all  sides, 
and  presently  through  the  thick  folds  of  those 
curtains  children  came  dancing  in,  singly, 
or  in  pairs,  till  a  whole  troop  of  ten  or  twelve 
were  assembled.  They  were  all  girls;  none,  I 
think,  more  than  fourteen  years  old,  one  or 
two  certainly  not  more  than  eight.  They  wore 
but  little  clothing,  their  legs,  feet  and  arms 
being  quite  bare.  Their  hair,  too,  was  unbound ; 
and  their  faces,  grave  and  smiling,  were  so 
utterly  dear  and  joyful,  that  in  looking  on  them 
one  felt  transported  to  some  Garden  of  Hes- 
perides,  where  self  was  not,  and  the  spirit 
floated  in  pure  ether.  Some  of  these  children 
were  fair  and  rounded,  others  dark  and  elf- 
like;  but  one  and  all  looked  entirely  happy, 
and  quite  unself-conscious,  giving  no  impression 
271 


A  MOTLEY 

of  artifice,  though  they  had  evidently  had  the 
highest  and  most  careful  training.  Each  flight 
and  whirling  movement  seemed  conceived  there 
and  then  out  of  the  joy  of  being — dancing 
had  surely  never  been  a  labour  to  them,  either 
in  rehearsal  or  performance.  There  was  no 
tiptoeing  and  posturing,  no  hopeless  muscular 
achievement;  all  was  rhythm,  music,  light, 
air,  and  above  all  things,  happiness.  Smiles 
and  love  had  gone  to  the  fashioning  of  their 
performance;  and  smiles  and  love  shone  from 
every  one  of  their  faces  and  from  the  clever 
white  turnings  of  their  limbs. 

Amongst  them — though  all  were  delightful — 
there  were  two  who  especially  riveted  my 
attention.  The  first  of  these  two  was  the  tall- 
est of  all  the  children,  a  dark  thin  girl,  in 
whose  every  expression  and  movement  there 
was  a  kind  of  grave,  fiery  love. 

During  one  of  the  many  dances,  it  fell  to  her 
to  be  the  pursuer  of  a  fair  child,  whose  move- 
ments had  a  very  strange  soft  charm;  and 
this  chase,  which  was  like  the  hovering  of  a 
dragon-fly  round  some  water-lily,  or  the  woo- 
ing of  a  moonbeam  by  the  June  night,  had  in 
272 


DELIGHT 

it  a  most  magical  sweet  passion.  That  dark, 
tender  huntress,  so  full  of  fire  and  yearning, 
had  the  queerest  power  of  symbolising  all  long- 
ing, and  moving  one's  heart.  In  her,  pursuing 
her  white  love  with  such  wistful  fervour,  and 
ever  arrested  at  the  very  moment  of  conquest, 
one  seemed  to  see  the  great  secret  force  that 
hunts  through  the  world,  on  and  on,  tragically 
unresting,  immortally  sweet. 

The  other  child  who  particularly  enchanted 
me  was  the  smallest  but  one,  a  brown-haired 
fairy  crowned  with  a  half-moon  of  white 
flowers,  who  wore  a  scanty  little  rose-petal- 
coloured  shift  that  floated  about  her  in  the 
most  delightful  fashion.  She  danced  as  never 
child  danced.  Every  inch  of  her  small  head 
and  body  was  full  of  the  sacred  fire  of  motion; 
and  in  her  little  pas  seul  she  seemed  to  be  the 
very  spirit  of  movement.  One  felt  that  Joy 
had  flown  down,  and  was  inhabiting  there; 
one  heard  the  rippling  of  Joy's  laughter.  And, 
indeed,  through  all  the  theatre  had  risen  a 
rustling  and  whispering;  and  sudden  bursts 
of  laughing  rapture. 

I  looked  at  my  friend;  he  was  trying  steal th- 
273 


A  MOTLEY 

ily  to  remove  something  from  his  eyes  with  a 
finger.  And  to  myself  the  stage  seemed  very 
misty,  and  all  things  in  the  world  lovable; 
as  though  that  dancing  fairy  had  touched 
them  with  tender  fire,  and  made  them  golden. 
God  knows  where  she  got  that  power  of 
bringing  joy  to  our  dry  hearts:  God  knows 
how  long  she  will  keep  it!  But  that  little 
flying  Love  had  in  her  the  quality  that  lies  in 
deep  colour,  in  music,  in  the  wind,  and  the 
sun,  and  in  certain  great  works  of  art — the 
power  to  set  the  heart  free  from  every  barrier, 
and  flood  it  with  delight. 

1910. 


OF  THE  t 

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OVERDUE- 


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